She watch'd his features till she could not bear Their freezing aspect and averted air; And that strange fierceness, foreign to her eye, Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. "But for that deed of darkness what wert thou? Reproach me--but not yet--O! spare me _now_! I am not what I seem--this fearful night My brain bewilder'd--do not madden quite! If I had never loved, though less my guilt, Thou hadst not lived to--hate me--if thou wilt." Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, The worst of crimes had left her woman still! This Conrad mark'd, and felt--ah! could he less? Hate of that deed, but grief for her distress; What she has done no tears could wash away, And Heaven must punish on its angry day: But--it was done: he knew, whate'er her guilt, For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt; And he was free! and she for him had given Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven! (_The Corsair._) But--"Heavens, Shelley!" cries his host, "what infinite nonsense are you quoting?" and he hastily turns the current of conversation towards more impersonal subjects. The evening wears on: the guests depart: the clear spring moonlight streams upon the winding Arno. Byron stands dreaming at the open window, the bridges and buildings of Pisa lie still and silver-lit before him: a subtle influence of quietude steals down upon him from the stars. "What nothings we are," he murmurs, "before the least of these stars!" One in particular--is it Sirius?--entrances his attention with its cold refulgence of pure light. His thoughts involuntarily shape themselves in rhythm and rhyme; Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star! Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, How like art thou to joy remember'd well! So gleams the past, the light of other days, Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays; A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, Distinct, but distant--clear--but oh! how cold!