Oh! what can sanctify the joys of home,
Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam?
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, her's alone is dark.
'Tis strange—of yore its welcome never fail'd,
Nor now, perchance, extinguished, only veil'd.
With the first boat descends he for the shore, 1740
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 reach'd his turret door—he paused—no sound
Broke from within—and all was night around.
He knock'd, and loudly—footstep nor reply 1750
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh;