AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM
LOW?

AND wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so-

I would not give that bosom pain.
My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,

My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine; And for a while my sorrows cease,

To know thy heart hath felt for mine. O lady! blessed be that tear

It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear

To those whose eyes no tear may steep. Sweet lady! once my heart was warm With every feeling soft as thine; But beauty's self hath ceased to charm A wretch created to repine. Yet wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again; Yet if they grieve thee, say not soI would not give that bosom pain.

FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN.
A SONG.

FILL the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to
its core;

Let us drink!-who would not ?—since, through life's varied round,

In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have loved!-who has not?-but what heart can declare,

That pleasure existed while passion was there? In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,

And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends!-who has not?-but what tongue

will avow,

That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam-thou never canst change;

Thou grow'st old!-who does not?-but on earth what appears,

Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to your idol below, We are jealous!-who's not?-thou hast no such alloy;

For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;

There we find-do we not?-in the flow of the soul,

That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth.

STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING
ENGLAND.*

'Tis done-and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the freshening blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen-
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest-
I should not seek another zone
Because I cannot love but one.
'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again;
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;

I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile, or welcome face;
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,

I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship's or Love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe:
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.

I go-but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part:
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
To think of every early scene,

Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe-
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
And who that dear-loved one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that early love was crost,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most:
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.

Mrs Musters, formerly Mary Chaworth.

TO FLORENCE.

Oн Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth,
I hardly thought to grieve once more,
To quit another spot on earth:
Yet here, amidst this barren isle,

Where panting Nature droops the head,
Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread.
Though far from Albin's craggy shore,
Divided by the dark blue main;
A few brief rolling seasons o'er,

Perchance I view her cliffs again :
But wheresoe'er I now may roam,
Through scorching clime and varied sea,
Though Time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee: On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word -to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend. And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had past
Through Danger's most destructive path,
Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath?
Lady! when I shall view the walls
Where free Byzantium once arose,
And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,
As spot of thy nativity :

And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
"Twill soothe to be where thou hast been.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM,
AT MALTA.

As o'er the cold sepuchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,
May mine attract thy pensive eve!

And when by thee that name is read, Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead,

And think my heart is buried here.

STANZAS

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND
WHILE BEWILDERED NEAR MOUNT PINDUS
IN ALBANIA.

CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
Where Pindus' mountains rise,
And angry clouds are pouring fast
The vengeance of the skies.

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play,

But show where rocks our path have crost,
Or gild the torrent's spray.

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.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
Hast trod the shore of Spain;
'Twere heard 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;

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 v. น
When sever'd hearts repine,
My spirit flies o'er mount and main,
And mourns in search of thinc.

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 scene I look,

The azure grave of many a Roman;
Where stern Ambition once torsook
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.

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.

LINES WRITTEN 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.
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.
Σώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.
MAID of Athens, 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,
Σώη μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

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

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Σώη μου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,t
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Σώη μοῦ, σας ἀγαπῶ.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE
DEAR object of defeated care!

Though now of love and thee bereft,
To reconcile me with despair,

Thine image and my tears are left.
'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope;
But this I feel can ne'er be true:
For by the death-blow of my Hope
My Memory immortal grew.

My life, I love you !" + Constantinople

TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK

WAR SONG.

Δεύτε παῖδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων.* SONS of the Greeks, arise!

The glorious hour's gone forth, And, worthy of such ties, Display who gave us birth.

CHORUS.

Sons of Greeks! let us go
In arms against the foe,

Till their hated blood shall flow

In a river past our feet.

Then manfully despising
The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
Let your country see you rising,

And all her chains are broke.
Brave shades of chiefs and sages,
Behold the coming strife!
Hellénes of past ages,

Oh, start again to life!

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven hill'd city seeking,t
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, etc.

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Lethargic dost thou lie?

Awake, and join thy numbers
With Athens, old ally!
Leonidas recalling,

That chief of ancient song,

Who saved thee once from falling,
The terrible the strong!

Who made that bold diversion
In old Thermopylæ,

And warring with the Persian
To keep his country free;

With his three hundred waging
The battle, long he stood,
And like a lion raging,
Expired in seas of blood.
Sons of Greeks, etc.

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG.

Μπενω μες το περιβόλι
Ωραιότατη Χάηδή, etc.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,
Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Which utters its song to adore thee,
Yet trembles for what it has sung;
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Through her eyes, through her every feature,
Shines the soul of the young Haidée.
But the loveliest garden grows hateful
When Love has abandon'd the bowers:
Bring me hemlock-since mine is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,

* The song was written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece.

Constantinople.

Will deeply embitter the bowl; But when drunk to escape from thy malice, The draught shall be sweet to my soul Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save: Will nought to my bosom restore thee? Then open the gates of the grave. As the chief who to combat advances, Secure of his conquest before, Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, Hast pierced through my heart to its core. Ah, tell inc, my soul, must I perish

By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish,

For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses,

Beloved but false Haidée!

There Flora all wither'd reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me,

ON PARTING.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,

Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?
By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,

Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

THE CHAIN I GAVE,

FROM THE TURKISH.

THE Cham I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
T: heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found."
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine:
And they have done their duty well,-
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think
In other hands its notes were such.
Let him who from thy neck unbound

The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Re-string the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too: The chain is broke, the music mute. 'Tis past-to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

you?

As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall-
Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and
Yes-it shall be--the magic of that name
Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame;
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama be where she hath been:
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell -
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!
As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest
heart.

On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu :
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,

That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse, With garlands deck your own Menander's head,* Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,

Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo
glass

To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line,
Pause--ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players

and Plays

Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject:
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forebore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause:
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echoed back by ours!

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, The Drama's homage by her herald paid," Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win