The lights are high on beacon and from bower, And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower: He looks in vain--'tis strange--and all remark, Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 'Tis strange--of yore its welcome never failed, Nor now, perchance, extinguished--only veiled. 1740 With the first boat descends he for the shore, And looks impatient on the lingering oar. Oh! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, To bear him like an arrow to that height! With the first pause the resting rowers gave, He waits not--looks not--leaps into the wave, Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and high Ascends the path familiar to his eye. He reached his turret door--he paused--no sound Broke from within; and all was night around. 1750 He knocked, and loudly--footstep nor reply Announced that any heard or deemed him nigh: He knocked, but faintly--for his trembling hand Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. The portal opens--'tis a well known face-- But not the form he panted to embrace. Its lips are silent--twice his own essayed, And failed to frame the question they delayed; He snatched the lamp--its light will answer all-- It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 1760 He would not wait for that reviving ray-- As soon could he have lingered there for day; But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, Another chequers o'er the shadowed floor; His steps the chamber gain--his eyes behold All that his heart believed not--yet foretold! XX. He turned not--spoke not--sunk not--fixed his look, And set the anxious frame that lately shook: He gazed--how long we gaze despite of pain, And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain! 1770 In life itself she was so still and fair, That Death with gentler aspect withered there; And the cold flowers[235] her colder hand contained, In that last grasp as tenderly were strained As if she scarcely felt, but feigned a sleep-- And made it almost mockery yet to weep: The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, And veiled--Thought shrinks from all that lurked below--Oh! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might,[236] And hurls the Spirit from her throne of light; 1780 Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips-- Yet, yet they seem as they forebore to smile, And wished repose,--but only for a while; But the white shroud, and each extended tress, Long, fair--but spread in utter lifelessness, Which, late the sport of every summer wind, Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind;[im] These--and the pale pure cheek, became the bier-- But She is nothing--wherefore is he here? 1790 XXI.