VOL. II

Is yon a cot I saw, though low?
When lightning broke the gloom-
How welcome were its shade !—ah, no!
'Tis but a Turkish tomb.

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,
I hear a voice exclaim-
My way-worn countryman, who calls
On distant England's name.

A shot is fired-by foe or friend?
Another-'tis to tell

The mountain-peasants to descend,
And lead us where they dwell.

Oh! who in such a night will dare
To tempt the wilderness?

And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear

Our signal of distress?

And who that heard our shouts would rise

To try the dubious road?

Nor rather deem from nightly cries

That outlaws were abroad.

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
More fiercely pours the storm!

Yet here one thought has still the power
To keep my bosom warm.

While wandering through each broken path,
O'er brake and craggy brow;

While elements exhaust their wrath,

Sweet Florence, where art thou?

Not on the sea, not on the sea,

Thy bark hath long been gone:
Oh, may the storm that pours on me,
Bow down my head alone!

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
When last I press'd thy lip;

And long ere now, with foaming shock,
Impell'd thy gallant ship.

R

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now

Hast trod the shore of Spain; 'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou Should linger on the main.

And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry
Which mirth and music sped; 23

Do thou, amid the fair white walls,
If Cadiz yet be free,

At times from out her latticed halls
Look o'er the dark blue sea;

Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by;
To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.

And when the admiring circle mark
The paleness of thy face,

A half-form'd tear, a transient spark
Of melancholy grace,

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun
Some coxcomb's raillery;

Nor own for once thou thought'st on one,
Who ever thinks on thee.

Though smile and sigh alike are vain,
When sever'd hearts repine,

My spirit flies o'er mount and main,
And mourns in search of thine.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF.

THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast:
And on these waves, for Egypt's queen,
The ancient world was won and lost.

And now upon the sccne I look,

The azure grave of many a Roman;
Where stern Ambition once forsook
His wavering crown to follow woman.

Florence! whom I will love as well
As ever yet was said or sung,

(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell)
Whilst thou art fair and I am young;

Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes
Had bards as many realms as rhymes.
Thy charms might raise new Antonies.

Though Fate forbids such things to be,
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd!

I cannot lose a world for thee,

But would not lose thee for a world.

November 14, 1809.

THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN!
WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810.

THE spell is broke, the charm is flown!
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan;
Delirium is our best deceiver.

Each lucid interval of thought

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter;
And he that acts as wise men ought,

But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS.24

IF, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont

(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont !

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he cross'd the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,

To woo,-and-Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

"Twere hard to say who fared the best:

Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest:

For he was drown'd, and I've the ague.25

May 9, 1810.

LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:

"FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart To trace the birth and nursery of art: Noble his object, glorious is his aim;

He comes to Athens, and he writes his name."

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING:

THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse,

His name would bring more credit than his verse.

1810,

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.

MAID of Athens,26 ere we part,
Give, oh give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.27

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.

By that lip I long to taste;

By that zone-encircled waist;

By all the token-flowers 28 that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.

Though I fly to Istambol,29

Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee?

Ζώη μου, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.

No!

Athens, 1810.