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Another-'tis to tell
And lead us where they dwell.
Oh! who in such a night will dare
To tempt the wilderness ?
Our signal of distress?
And who that heard our shouts would rise
To try the dubious road?
That outlaws were abroad.
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
More fiercely pours the storm!
9. While wand'ring 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,
Impelld thy gallant ship.
Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
Hast trod the shore of Spain; 'Twere hard if ought 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;
Do thou amidst the fair white walls,
If Cadiz yet be free,
Look o'er the dark blue sea ;
Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by;
To me a single sigh.
And when the admiring circle mark
The paleness of thy face,
Of melancholy grace,
Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun
Some coxcomb's raillery;
Who ever thinks on thee,
Though smile and sigh alike are vain,
When sever'd hearts repine,
And mourns in search of thine.
WRITTEN AT ATHENS.
JANUARY 16, 1810.
The spell is broke, the charm is flown!
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
Delirium is our best deceiver.
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. (1)
MAY 9, 1810.
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.
According to the doubtful story,
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.
Ζώη με σας αγαπώ. (2)