But soon he found—or feigned—or dreamed relief,
And smiled in self-derision of his grief,
"And now come torture when it will—or may—
"More need of rest to nerve me for the day!"
This said, with languor to his mat he crept,
And, whatso'er his visions, quickly slept.
'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun,
For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done,990
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time,
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime.
One hour beheld him since the tide he stemmed—
A chief on land—an outlaw on the deep—
He slept in calmest seeming—for his breath
Was hush'd so deep—Ah! happy if in death!
He slept—Who o'er his placid slumber bends?
His foes are gone—and here he hath no friends;1000
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace?
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face!