Friday, 28 June 2013

The pirate song!

Frank Earle Schoonovers: Brawn of These Lads Made the Pike a Match for a Pirates Cutlass

(The Corsair by George Gordon Lord Byron)

'O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our soul's as free 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway- 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! 
whom slumber soothes not - pleasure cannot please - 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
The exulting sense - the pulse's maddening play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way? 
Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle 
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while: 
Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks along, 
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song! 
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 
They game-carouse-converse-or whet the brand: 
Select the arms-to each his blade assign, 
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine. 
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 
While others straggling muse along the shore
'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. 

(Full poem here )

(Dark Moor - Cancion del Pirata)