Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet
His only tidings that they had not met!
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 1240
Had Conrad waited for that single sail.
The night-breeze freshens—she that day had past
In watching all that Hope proclaimed a mast;
Sadly she sate—on high—Impatience bore
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore,
And there she wandered heedless of the spray
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away:
She saw not—felt not this—nor dared depart,
Nor deemed it cold—her chill was at her heart;
Till grew such certainty from that suspense— 1250
His very Sight had shock'd from life or sense!
It came at last—a sad and shattered boat,
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought—
Some bleeding—all most wretched—these the few—
Scarce knew they how escaped— this all they knew.
In silence darkling each appeared to wait
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate.