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George Gordon Byron - The Corsair
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Within the grot - like that had harden`d too; 
Less clear perchance, its earthly trials pass`d, 
But sunk, and chill`d, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock; 
If such his heart, so shatter`d it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade - it shelter`d - saved till now. 
The thunder came - that bolt hath blasted both, 
The Granite`s firmness, and the Lily` growth: 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither`d where it fell 
And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver`d fragments on the barren ground!  

XXIV.
`Tis morn - to venture on his lonely hour 
Few  dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there, nor seen along the shore; 
Ere night, alarm`d, their isle is traversed o`er: 
Another morn - another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak; 
Mount: grotto, cavern, valley search`d in vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat`s broken chain: 
Their hope revives-they follow o`er the main. 
`Tis idle all - moons roll on moons away, 
And Conrad comes not, came not since that day: 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish`d his despair! 
Long mourn`d his band whom none could mourn beside; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride: 
For him they raise not the recording stone - 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known; 
He left a Corsair`s name to other times, 
Link`d with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.
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