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How quenchless the spirit and flame That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are on fire,


OH Lady! when I left the shore, For the hero they love, and the chief they I hardly thought to grieve once more, The distant shore which gave me birt


Their hero has rush'd to the field;

His laurels are cover'd with shadeBut where is the spirit that never should yield,

The loyalty never to fade?

In a moment desertion and guile
Abandon'd him up to the foe;

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 cliff's again:

The dastards that flourish'd and grew in But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

his smile,

Forsook and renounced him in woe; And the millions that swore they would perish to save,

Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave!

The savage all wild in his glen

Is nobler and better than thou;

Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men,
Such perfidy blackens thy brow!
If thou wert the place of my birth,

At once from thy arms would I sever;
I'd fly to the uttermost parts of the earth,
And quit thee for ever and ever;
And thinking of thee in my long after-

Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears.

Oh, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul! Oh, shame to thy children and thee! Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, How wretched thy portion shall be! Derision shall strike thee forlorn, A mockery that never shall die; The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn,

Shall burthen the winds of thy sky; And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!

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

And since thy heart I cannot share,
With such a word can more offend;
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 wonderous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been.
September, 1809.

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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 Anthonies.

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.


Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night, in a thunderstorm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called 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 gloomHow 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 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,
Impell'd thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long cre 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 theè
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,

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 thoughtst of 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.


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

Recals the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought, But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.


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Δεῦτε παῖδες τῶν ̔Ελλήνων

Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. The following translation is as literal as the author could make it in verse; it is of the same measure as that of the original.

SONS of the Greeks, arise!

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

Sons of Greeks! let us go

In arms against the foe,
Till their hated blood shall flow
In a river past our feet.

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Μπενω μες το περιβολι
Ωραιότατη Χαηδή.

The song from which this is taken is a great
favourite with the young girls of Athens of all
classes. Their manner of singing it is by ver-
ses in rotation, the whole number present join-
ing in the chorus. I have heard it frequently
at our "xooo" in the winter of 1810-11.
The air is plaintive and pretty.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidee,

Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely 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

Shines the soul of the young Haidee.

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,
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 me, my soul! must I perish

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

For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidee!

There Flora all wither'd reposes,

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
Nor one memorial for a breast,
In gazing when alone;

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


WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid?
By many a shore and many a sea

Divided, yet beloved in vain;
The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!
Could this have been- a word, a look

That softly said, "We part in peace,” Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.
And didst thou not, since Death for thee
Prepared a light and pangless dart,
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,

When silent Sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all was past? But when no more
"Twas thine to reck of human woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow.
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,
Affection's mingling tears were ours?

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. Ours too the glance none saw beside;


THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

The smile none else might understand;
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss so guiltless and refined

That Love each warmer wish forbore;
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Even passion blush'd to plead for more.
The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
The song, celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine;

The pledge we wore-I wear it still,
But where is thine?-ah, where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again;
But if in worlds more blest than this
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me too early taught by thee! To bear, forgiving and forgiven: On earth thy love was such to me, It fain would form my hope in heaven!


AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter daysBut lull the chords, for now, alas! I must not think, I may not gaze

On what I am, on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an authem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart!

'Tis silent all!-but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear, A voice that now might well be still; Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake: Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake To listen, though the dream be flown.

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep, Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he, who through life's dreary way Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form'd to live alone:
I'll be that light unmeaning thing
That smiles with all, and weeps with none.
It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou
Hast fled, and left me lonely here;

Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now.

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night

It soothed to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye; And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!

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When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, “Tis comfort still,” I faintly said, "That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" Like freedom to the time-worn slave, A boon 'tis idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,

When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meetst my gaze! How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee Is silent-ah, were mine as still! Though cold as e'en the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill.

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! Though painful, welcome to my breast! Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,

Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest! Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallow'd when its hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves

To that which cannot quit the dead?


ONE struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
One last long sigh to love and thee,
Then back to busy life again.
It suits me well to mingle now


WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing

Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

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