None are all evil--quickening 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; 290 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; 300 Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part, Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart; Which nought 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-- Not Guilt itself could quench this loveliest one![hr] XIII. He paused a moment--till his hastening men Passed the first winding downward to the glen. 310 "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. Aye, let them slumber--peaceful be their dreams! Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 320 As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) To warm these slow avengers of the seas. Now to Medora--Oh! my sinking heart,[hs] Long may her own be lighter than thou art! Yet was I brave--mean boast where all are brave! Ev'n 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; 330 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?