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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.

I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu ;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.

STANZAS

TO FLORENCE. Oh 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.

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,

Impelld 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;

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!

Then think upon Calypso's isler,

l'or me, degenerate modern wretch, Endear'u by days gone by:

Though in the genial month of May, To others give a thousand smiles,

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, To me a single sigh.

And think I've done a feat to-day. And when the admiring circle mark

But since he cross'd the rapid tide, The paleness of thy face,

According to the doubtful story, A hall-form'd tear, a transient spark

To woo,-and-Lord knows what beside, Of melancholy grace,

And swam for Love, as I for glory; Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun

"Twere hard to say who fared the best; Some coxcomb's raillery ;

Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you! Nor own for once thou thought'st on one Hc lost his labour, I my jest; Who ever thinks on thee.

For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. Though smile and sigh alike are v. When sever'd hearts repine,

LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' My spirit flies o'er mount and main,

BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS. And mourns in search of thinc.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN: STANZAS

“Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart WRITTEN IN PASSING THX AMBRACIAN GULF.

To trace thc birth and nursery of art:

Noble his object, glorious is his aim; THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,

He comes to Athens, and he writes his name. Full beams the moon on Actium's coast : And on these waves, for Egypt's queen,

DENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE

FOLLOWING: The ancient world was won and lost.

The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, And now upon the scene I look,

Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own; The azure grave of many a Roman; But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, Where stern Ambition once torsook

His name would bring more credit than his verse. liis wavering crown to follow woman. Florence ! * whom I will love as well

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. As ever yet was said or sung (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell),

Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ. Whilst thou art fair and I am young;

Maid of Athens, ere we part, Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, Give, oh give me back my heart ! When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes :

Or, since that has left my breast, Had bards as many realms as rhymes,

Keep it now, and take the rest! Thy charms might raise new Antonies,

Hear my vow before I go, Though Fate forbids such things to be,

Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ. Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd!

By those tresses unconfined, I cannot lose a world for thee,

Wood by each Ægean wind : But would not lose thee for a world.

By those lids whose jetty fringe

Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS

By those wild eyes like the roe,
FLOWX!

Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ.
WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810.

By that lip I long to taste; The spell is broke, the charm is flown !

By that zone-encircled waist; Thus is it with life's fitful fever:

By all the token-flowers that tell We madly smile when we should groan:

What words can never speak so well ; Delirium is our best deceiver.

By love's alternate joy and woe, Each lucid interval of thought

Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ. Recalls the woes of Nature's charter ;

Maid of Athens! I am gone: And he that acts as wise men ought,

Think of me, sweet! when alone. But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.

Though I fly to Istambol,t

Athens holds my heart and soul:
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM

Can I cease to love thee? No!
SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ.
IF, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE (What maid will not the tale remember?)

Dear object of defeated care! To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont !

Though now of love and thee bereft, If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,

To reconcile me with despair, He sped to Hero, nothing loth,

Thine image and my tears are left. And thus of old thy current pour'd,

'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope; Fair Venus ! how I pity both !

But this I feel can ne'er be true: * Mrs Spencer Smith.

For by the death-blow of my Hope + Lieutenant Ekenhead of the Frigate Sa?.

My Memory immortal grew. sette accomplished the seat at the same time. My life, I love you!"

+ Constantinorlu TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK Will deeply embitter the bowl ;

But when drunk to escape from thy malice, WAR SONG

The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
Δεύτε παίδες των Ελλήνων.*

Too cruel! in vain I implore thee
Sons of the Greeks, arise !

My heart from these horrors to save:
The glorious hour's gone forth,

Will nought to my bosom restore thee?
And, worthy of such ties,

Then open the gates of the grave.
Display who gave us birth.

As the chief who to combat advances,

Secure of his conquest before,
CHORUS.
Sons of Greeks! let us go

Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
In arms against the foe,

Hast pierced through my heart to its core,
Till their hated blood shall flow

Ah, tell inc, my soul, must I perish
In a river past our feet.

By pangs which a smile would dispel!
Then manfully despising

Would the hope, which thou once bad'st mu The Turkish tyrant's yoke,

cherish,
Let your country see you rising,

For torture repay me too well?
And all her chains are broke.

Now sad is the garden of roses,
Brave shades of chiefs and sages,

Bela ved but false Haidée !
Behold the coming strife!

There Flora all wither'd reposes,
Hellénes of past ages,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me.
Oh, start again to life!
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking

ON PARTING.
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven hill'd city seeking, t

The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Shall never part from mine,
Sons of Greeks, etc.

Till happier hours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.
Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Lethargic dost thou lie?

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
Awake, and join thy numbers

An equal love may see :
With Athens, old ally!

The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Leonidas recalling,

Can weep no change in me.
That chief of ancient song,

I ask no pledge to make me blest
Who saved thee once from falling,

In gazing when alone ;
The terrible i the strong!

Nor one memorial for a breast,
Who made that bold diversion

Whose thoughts are all thine own.
In old Thermopylæ,

Nor need I write-- to tell the tale
And warring with the Persian
To keep his country free;

My pen were doubly weak:
With his three hundred waging

Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak?
The battle, long he stood,
And like a lion raging,

By day or night, in weal or woe,
Expired in seas of blood.

That heart, no longer free,
Sons of Greeks, etc.

Must bear the love it cannot show,

And silent ache for thee.

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICII WAS

BROKEN.
ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be,

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ?
Have years of care for thine and the

Alike been all employ'd in vain ?
Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,

And every fragment dearer grown,
Since he who wears thee feels thou art

A fitter emblem of his own.

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.

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.*
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,

A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ;
Ah: happy if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away!
Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears-

Auspicious to these suffering isles : And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles,

* The Princess Charlotte,

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRUTY LANE

THE CHAIN I GAVE,

That only waste their odours o'er the romb.

Such Drury claim'd and claims--nor you refuse FPM THE TURKISH.

Onc tribute to revive his slumbering muse , The chun I gave was fair to view,

With garlands deck your own Menander's head, llelute diled sweet in sound ;

Nor hoard your honours id.y for the dead
I!: here that offer'd both was true,
And in deserved the fate it found.

Dear are the days which made our annals

bright, These gists were charm'd by secret spell, Ere Garrick fled, or Prinsley ceased to write, Tly truth in absence to divine :

Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Anlihey have done their duty well, - Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;

Alas! they could not teach thee thine. While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's That chain was firm in every link,

glass Put not to bear a stranger's touch ; To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, That lute was sweet -till thou couldst think And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine

in other hands its notes were such. Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, Let him who from thy neck unbound

Pause--ere their feebler offspring you condemn, The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,

Reflect how hard the task to rival them! Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players Rc-string the chords, renew the clasp.

and Plays When thou wert changed, they alter'd too

Must sue alike for pardon or for praise. The chain is broke, the music mute.

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct "Tis past - to them and thee adieu

The boundless power to cherish or reject:
False heart, irail chain, and silent lute.

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
ADDRESS,

To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,

All past reproach may present scenes refute, THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,

Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; l Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause: In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,

So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's power, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

And reason's voice be echoed back by ours ! Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and This greeting o'er, the ancient rule oley'd, mourn'd,

The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!)

Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Through clouds of fire the massive fragments

Springs from our hearts, and fain would win riven,

your own. Like Israel's pillar,chase the night from heaven: The curtain rises-may our stage unfold Saw the long column of revolving flames

Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, While thousands, throng'd around the burning Still may we please--long, long may you pre

side. dome, Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home,

VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSS As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone

AT HALES-OWEN. The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,

WHEN Dryden's fool, † "unknowing what he Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall

sought," Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fail

His hours in whistling spent, “for want of Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Reard where once rose the mightiest in our isle, This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense

thought," Know the same favour which the former knew; Supplied, and amply too, by innocence. A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you? Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name

powers, Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame ;) In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, On the same spot still consecrates the scene, Th oftended guests would not, with blushing, And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! Severe the fate of modern fools, alas! As soars this fane to emulate the last,

When vice and folly mark them as they pass Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,

Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wil, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boase

The filth they leave still points out where the Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.

crawl. On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest

REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE! heart.

REMEMBER thee! remember thee!
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream,
Sigh d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu :
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,

Sheridan,
+ See Dryden's "Cymon and Iphigenia.

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Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,

And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remeniber thee! Ay, doubt it not,

Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me.

TO TIME. TIME! on whose arbitrary wing

The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,

But drag or drive us on to die-
Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd

Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load,

For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share

The bitter moments thou hast given ;
And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare

All that I loved, to peace or heaven. To them be joy or rest, on me

Thy future ills shall press in vain :
I nothing owe but years to thee,

A debt already paid in pain.
Yet even that pain was some relief,

It felt, but still forgot thy power:
The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight

Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light,

But could not add a night to woe ; For them, however drear and dark,

My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark To

prove thee-not Eternity. That beam hath sunk, and now thou art

A blank; a thing to count and curse, Through each dull tedious trifling part,

Which all regret, yet all rehearse. One scene even thou canst not deform;

The limit of thy sloth or speed, When future wanderers bear the storm

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : And I can smile to think how weak

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak

Must fall upon-a nameless stone.

But caught { thin the sobte snare,
I burn, and :bly flutter there.
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.
My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip and alter'd eye?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird ! relent: one note could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.
My curdling blood, my madd’ning brain,
In silent anguish I sustain ;
And still thy heart, without partaking,
One pang, exults --while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison ; fear not thou !
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe.

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU

ART FICKLE.
Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,

To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought : 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest. The wholly false the heart despises,

And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, --
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow,

Is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,

We scarce our fancy can forgive, That cheated us in slumber only, To leave the waking soul more lonely, What must they feel whom no false vision,

But truest, tenderest passion warm’d?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition

As if a dream alone had charm'd ?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming !

;

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE

SONG, Au! Love was never yet without The pang, the agony, the doubt, Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, While day and night roll darkling by. Without one friend to hear my woe, I faint, I die beneath the blow. That love had arrows well I knew; Alas! I find them poison'd too. Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net Which love around your haunts hath set; Or, circled by his fatal fire, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire A bird of free and careless wing Was I, through many a smiling spring;

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