The Corsair

This recording is in the public domain.

Song from "The Corsair" by Lord Byron.

Read for LibriVox.org.

Deep in my soul, that tender secret dwells, Lonely and lost to light for evermore, Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, Then trembles into silence as before.

This recording is in the public domain.

Song from The Corsair by Lord Byron, read for LibriVox.org.

Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, Lonely and lost to light for evermore; Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, Then trembles into silence as before.

There, in its center, a sepulchral lamp Burns with slow flame, eternal but unseen, Which not the darkness of despair can damp, Though vain its ray, as it had never been! Remember me! oh, pass not thou my grave Without one thought whose relics there recline: The only pang my bosom dare not brave Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.

It comes from the world that we're in.

After breakfast, everyone goes on another walk, and Anne walks alongside Captain Benwick, and they discuss Lord Byron's poem, The Corsair.

Then Captain Harville pulls Anne aside.

He's grateful for Anne's attention to Benwick and tells Anne the whole story of Fanny's death.

I just think it's so beautiful.

It is just gorgeous.

That illusion and the way it works, the Corsair, that is a poem about grief and loss.

And in short, the Corsair is a pirate whose beloved wife, Medora, tries to convince him to stay home.

Elinor is the taller, the more forceful, the one who runs the household and writes the sharp letters.

Sarah is quieter, gentler, the one who draws and does needlework and copies out poems in a small, careful hand.

Together they look, in every portrait and silhouette that survives, like exactly what they were: a pair.

Now here is the strange thing that happens to two women who wanted only to be left alone.

They dress this way in the garden and in the library and in church, and they dress this way for the Duke of Wellington, and they never explain it to anyone.

Eleanor is the taller, the more forceful, the one who runs the household and writes the sharp letters.

Sarah is quieter, gentler, the one who draws and does needlework and copies out poems in a small, careful hand.

Together, they look in every portrait and silhouette that survives like exactly what they were, a pair.

And Circassia's daughter, the stately Leila of the Gior, whose black and flowing hair swept the marble where her feet gleamed whiter than the mountain sleet.

Or if the reader seek a further choice, there is Medora, beloved of the Corsair, Medora of the deep blue eye and long fair hair, or the nameless eastern maiden of the Hebrew melodies.

She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.

Thus mellowed that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies.

Shelley, whose assiduous studies in literature have led him quite to other conclusions, defends his craft with ardour.

But Byron's chief successes have been too lightly won.

He who wrote The Corsair in ten days, The Bride of Abbie Does in four, and Laura, whilst undressing after balls and masquerades, cannot be expected to take a very serious view of poetry as the one business of a lifetime.

I by no means rank poetry or poets, says he, high in the scale of imagination.

ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess but they forgive his silence for success ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill that goblet passes him untasted still and for his fare the rudest of his crew would that in turn had passed untasted too earth's course is bred the garden's homeliest roots and scarce the summer luxury of fruits his short repast in humbleness supply withal a hermit's hoard would scarce deny but while he shuns the grosser joys of sense his mind seems nourished by that abstinence steer to that shore they sail do this tis done now form and follow me the spoil is won thus prompt his accents and his actions still and all obey and few enquire his will to such brief answer and contemptuous eye convey reproof nor further deign reply three a sail a sail a promised prize to hope her nation flag how speaks the telescope no prize alas but yet a welcome sail the blood-red signal glitters in the gale yes she is ours a home returning bark blow fair thou breeze she anchors ere the dark already doubled is the cape our bay receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray how gloriously her gallant course she goes her white wings flying never from her foes she walks the waters like a thing of life and seems to dare the elements to strife who would not brave the battle fire the wreck to move the monarch of her peopled deck for hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings the sails are furled and anchoring round she swings and gathering loiterers on the land discern her boat descending from the latticed stern tis manned the oars keep concert to the strand till grates her keel upon the shallow sand hail to the welcome shout the friendly speech when hand grasped hand united on the beach the smile the question and the quick reply and the heart's promise of festivity v the tidings spread and gathering grows the crowd the hum of voices and the laughter loud and woman's gentler anxious tone is heard friends husbands lovers names in each dear word oh are they safe we ask not of success but shall we see them will their accents for where the battle roars the billows chafe they doubtless boldly did but who are safe but let them haste to gladden and surprise and kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes six where is our chief for him we bear report and doubt that joy which hails our coming short yet thus sincere tis cheering though so brief but juan instant guide us to our chief our greeting paid will feast on our return and all shall hear what each may wish to learn ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way to where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay by bushy brake and wild flowers blossoming and freshness breathing from each silver spring whose scattered streams from granite basins burst leap into life and sparkling woo your thirst from crag to cliff they mount near yonder cave what lonely straggler looks along the wave in pensive posture leaning on the brand not oft arresting staff to that red hand tis he tis conrad here as wont alone on juan on and make our purpose known the bark he views and tell him we would greet his ear with tidings he must quickly meet we dare not yet approach thou know'st his mood when strange or uninvited steps intrude him one sort and told of their intent he spake not but a sigh expressed assent these wan calls they come to their salute he bends him slightly but his lips are mute these letters chief are from the greek the spy who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh whate'er his tidings we can well report much that peace peace he cuts their pratings short wondering they turn abashed while each to each conjecture whispers in his muttering speech they watch his glance with many a stealing look to gather how that eye the tidings took but this as if he guessed with head aside perchance from some emotion doubt or pride he read the scroll my tablets juan hark where is gonsalvo in the anchored bark there let him stay to him this order bear back to your duty for my course prepare myself this enterprise to-night will share to-night lord conrad ay at set of sun the breeze will freshen when the day is done my corslet cloak one hour and we are gone sling on thy bugle see that free from rust my carbine lock springs worthy of my trust be the edge sharpened of my boarding brand and give its guard more room to fit my hand this let the armourer with speed dispose last time it more fatigued my arm than foe's mark that the signal gun be duly fired to tell us when the hour of stays expired the

section two of the corsair by george gordon lord byron this librivox recording is in the public domain canto i stanzas eight to thirteen eight they make obeisance and retire in haste too soon to seek again the watry waste yet they repine not so that conrad guides and who dare question aught that he decides that man of loneliness and mystery scarce seen to smile and seldom heard to sigh whose name appalls the fiercest of his crew and tints each swarthy cheek with saluer hue still sways their souls with that commanding art that dazzles leads yet chills the vulgar heart what is that spell that thus his lawless train confess and envy yet oppose in vain what should it be that thus their faith can bind the power of thought the magic of the mind linked with success assumed and kept with skill that moulds another's weakness to its will wields with their hands but still to these unknown makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own such hath it been shall be beneath the sun the many still must labor for the one tis nature's doom but let the wretch who toils accuse not hate not him who wears the spoils oh if he knew the weight of splendid chains how light the balance of his humbler pains nine unlike the heroes of each ancient race demons in act but gods at least in face in conrad's form seems little to admire though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire robust but not herculean to the sight no giant frame sets forth his common height Yet in the whole, who paused to look again, saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men.

They gaze and marvel how, and still confess that thus it is, but why they cannot guess.

Winning never sounded so good.

sunburnt his cheek his forehead high and pale the sable curls in wild profusion veil and oft perforce his rising lip reveals the haughtier thought it curbs but scarce conceals though smooth his voice and calm his general mien still seems there something he would not have seen his features deepening lines and varying hue at times attracted yet perplexed the view as if within that murkiness of mind worked feelings fearful and yet undefined such might it be that none could truly tell too close inquiry his stern glance would quell there breathe but few whose aspect might defy the full encounter of his searching eye he had the skill when cunning's gaze would seek to probe his heart and watch his changing cheek at once the observer's purpose to espy and on himself roll back his scrutiny lest he to conrad rather should betray some secret thought than drag that chief's to-day there was a laughing devil in his sneer that raised emotions both of rage and fear and where his frown of hatred darkly fell hope withering fled and mercy sighed farewell ten slight are the outward signs of evil thought within within twas there the spirit wrought love shows all changes hate ambition guile betray no further than the bitter smile the lips least curl the lightest paleness thrown along the governed aspect speak alone of deeper passions and to judge their mien he who would see must be himself unseen then with the hurried tread the upward eye the clenched hand the pause of agony that listens starting lest the step too near approach intrusive on that mood of fear then with each feature working from the heart with feelings loosed to strengthen not depart that rise convulse contend that freeze or glow flush in the cheek or damp upon the brow then stranger if thou canst and tremblest not behold his soul the rest that soothes his lot mark how that lone and blighted bosom sears the scathing thought of execrated years behold but who hath seen or e'er shall see man as himself the secret spirit free eleven yet was not conrad thus by nature sent to lead the guilty guilt's worst instrument his soul was changed before his deeds had driven him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven warped by the world in disappointment's school in words too wise in conduct there a fool too firm to yield and far too proud to stoop doomed by his very virtues for a dupe he cursed those virtues as the cause of ill and not the traitors who betrayed him still nor deemed that gifts bestowed on better men had left him joy and means to give again feared shunned belied ere youth had lost her force he hated man too much to feel remorse and thought the voice of wrath a sacred call to pay the injuries of some on all he knew himself a villain but he deemed the rest no better than the thing he seemed and scorned the best as hypocrites who hid those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did he knew himself detested but he knew the hearts that loathed him crouched and dreaded too lone wild and strange he stood alike exempt from all affection and from all contempt his name could sadden and his acts surprise but they that feared him dared not to despise man spurns the worm but pauses ere he wake the slumbering venom of the folded snake the first may turn but not avenge the blow the last expires but leaves no living foe fast to the doomed offender's form it clings and he may crush not conquer still it stings none are all evil clinging round his heart one softer feeling would not yet depart oft could he sneer at others as beguiled by passions worthy of a fool or child yet gainst that passion vainly still he strove and even in him it asks the name of love yes it was love unchangeable unchanged felt but for one from whom he never ranged though fairest captives daily met his eye he shunned nor sought but coldly passed them by though many a beauty drooped in prisoned bower none ever soothed his most unguarded hour yes it was love if thoughts of tenderness tried in temptation strengthened by distress unmoved by absence firm in every clime and yet oh more than all untired by time which nor defeated hope nor baffled wile could render sullen were she near to smile nor rage could fire nor sickness fret to vent on her one murmur of his discontent which still would meet with joy with calmness part lest that his look of grief should reach her heart which naught removed nor menaced to remove if there be love in mortals this was love he was a villain aye reproaches shower on him but not the passion nor its power which only proved all other virtues gone naught guilt itself could quench this loveliest one thirteen he paused a moment till his hastening men passed the first winding downward to the glen strange tidings many a peril have i passed nor know i why this next appears the last yet so my heart forebodes but must not fear nor shall my followers find me falter here tis rash to meet but surer death to wait till here they hunt us to undoubted fate and if my plan but hold and fortune smile we'll furnish mourners for our funeral pile ay let them slumber peaceful be their dreams more ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams as kindle high to-night but blow thou breeze to warm these slow avengers of the seas now to medora o my sinking heart long may her own be lighter than thou art yet was i brave mean boast where all are brave even insects sting for aught they seek to save this common courage which with brutes we share that owes its deadliest efforts to despair small merit claims but twas my nobler hope to teach my few with numbers still to cope long have i led them not to vainly bleed no medium now we perish or succeed so let it be it irks not me to die but thus to urge them whence they cannot fly my lot hath long had little of my care but chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare is this my skill my craft to set at last hope power and life upon a single cast O fate, accuse thy folly, not thy fate.

She may redeem them still, nor yet too late.

Section 3 of The Corsair by George Gordon, Lord Byron

the sleeper box recording is in the public domain canto 1 stanza 14 through 17 stanza 14 thus with himself communion held he till he reached the summit of his tower crowned hill there at the portal paused for wild and soft he heard those accents never heard too oft through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung and these the notes his bird of beauty sung deep in my soul that tender secret dwells lonely and lost to light for evermore save when to thine my heart responsive swells then trembles into silence as before then in its centre a sepulchral lamp burns the slow flame eternal but unseen which not the darkness of despair can damp though vain its ray as it had never been remember me o pass not thou my grave without one thought whose relics there recline the only pang my bosom dare not brave must be to find forgetfulness in time my fondest faintest latest accents here greet for the dead not virtue can reprove then give me all i ever asked a tear the first last sole reward of so much love he passed the portal crossed the corridor and reached the chamber as the strain gave o'er my own medora sure thy song is sad in conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad without thine ear to listen to my lay still must my song my thoughts my soul betray still must each accent to my bosom suit my heart unhushed although my lips were mute o many a night on this lone couch reclined my dreaming fear with storms hath winged the wind and deemed the breath that faintly fanned thy sail the murmuring prelude of the rooter gale though soft it seemed a low prophetic dirge that mourned thee floating on the savage surge still would i rise to rouse the beacon fire lest spies less true should let the blaze expire and many a restless hour outwatched each star and morning came and still thou wert afar oh how the chill blast on my bosom blew and day broke dreary on my troubled view and still i gazed and gazed and not a prow was granted to my tears my truth my vow at length twas noon i hailed and blessed the mast that held my sight it neared alas it passed another came o god twas thine at last would that those days were over wilt thou ne'er my conrad learn the joys of peace to share sure thou hast more than wealth in many a home as bright as this invites us not to roam thou knowest it is not peril that i fear i only tremble when thou art not here then not for mine but that far dearer life which flies from love and languishes for strife How strange that heart, to me so tender still, Should war with nature and its better will.

This recording is in the public domain.

Song from The Corsair by Lord Byron, read for LibriVox.org.

Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, Lonely and lost to light for evermore; Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, Then trembles into silence as before.

There, in its center, a sepulchral lamp Burns the slow flame, eternal but unseen, Which not the darkness of despair can damp, Though vain its ray as it had never been! Remember me!—oh, pass not thou my grave Without one thought whose relics there recline; The only pang my bosom dare not brave Must be to find forgetfulness in thine.