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How quenchless the spirit and flame

TO ... 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 admire !

To quit another spot on earth:

Yet here, amidst this barren isle, Their hero has rush'd to the field;

Where panting Nature droops the head His laurels are cover'd with shade-Where only thou art seen to smile, But where is the spirit that never should

I view my parting hour with dread. yield,

Though far from Albin's craggy shore, The loyalty never to fade ?

Divided by the dark blue main; In a moment desertion and guile

A few, brief,' rolling seasons o’er, Abandon'd him up to the foe;

Perchance I view her cliffs again: The dastards that flourish'd and grew in But wheresoe'er ! now may roam,

his smile,

Through scorching clime and varied sea, Fors ook and renounced him in woe;

Though time restore me to my bome, And the millions that swore they would

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee: perish to save,

On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave!


Whom but to see is to admire, The savage all wild in his glen

And, oh! forgive the word—to love. Is nobler and better than thou;

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men, And since thy heart I cannot share,

With snch a word can more offend; Such persidy blackens thy brow! If thou wert the place of my birth,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend. At once from thy arms would I sever;

And who so cold as look on thee, I'd fy to the uttermost parts of the earth,

Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? And quit thee for ever and ever;

Nor be, what man should ever be, And thinking of thee in my long after

The friend of Beanty in distress ?

Ah! who would think that form had past

years, Should but kindle my blushes and waken

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 Oh, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul!

Where free Byzantium once arose, Oh, shame to thy children and thee!

And Stamboul's Oriental halls Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall,

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; How wretched thy portion shall be!

Though mightiest in the lists of fame, Derision shall strike thee forlorn,

That glorious city still shall be; A mockery that never shall die;

On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, The curges of hate, and the hisses of As spot of thy nativity:


And though I bid thee now farewell, Shall burthen the winds of thy sky;

When I behold that wonderous scene, And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurlia Since where thou art I may not dwell, The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the

'Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been. world!

September, 1809.

my tears.



WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULPH, As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

NOVEMBER 14, 1809.
Some name arrests the passer-by:
Thus when thou view'st this page alone,

THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, May mine attract thy pensive eye! Full beams the moon on Actium's coast:

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, And when by thee that name is read, The ancient world was won and lost.

Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead,

And now upon the scene I look, And think my heart is buried here.

The azure grave of many a Roman; September 14, 1809. Where stern Ambition once forsook

His wavering crown to follow woman.

Florence! whom I will love as vell While wand'ring through each broken path, As ever yet was said or sung,

O'er brake and craggy brow; (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) While elements exhaust their wrath,

Whilst thou art fair and I am young; Sweet Florence, where art thou
Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, Not on the sea, not on the sea,

When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes: Thy bark hath long been gone:
Had bards as many realms as rhymes, Oh, may the storm that pours on me,

Thy charms might raise new Anthonies. Bow down my head alone!
Though Fate forbids such things to be, Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,

Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! When last I press'd thy lip; I cannot lose a world for thee,

And long ere now, with

foaming shock, But vould not lose thee for a world. Impeli'd thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long cre now

Hast trod the shore of Spain:

'Twere bard if ought so fair as thou STANZAS.

Should linger on the main. Composed October 11th, 1809, dnring the night, And since I now remember thed

in a thunderstorm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of moun

In darkness and in dread, tains formerly called Pindus, in Albania. As in those hours of revelry

Which mirth and music sped;
CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
Where Pindus' mountains rise,

Do thou amidst the fair white walls,
And angry clouds are pouring fast

If Cadiz yet be free, The vengeance of the skies.

At times from out her latticed halls

Look o'er the dark blue sea;
Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play,

Then think upon Calypso's isles,
But show where rocks our path have crost,

Endear'd by days gone by ; Or gild the torrent's spray.

To others give a thousand smiles,

To me a single sigh.
Is yon a cot I saw, though low?
When lightning broke the gloom-

And when the admiring circle mark
How welcome were its shade!-ah, no!

The paleness of thy face,

A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Tis but a Turkish tomb.

Of melancholy grace, Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shan I hear a voice exclaim

Some coxcomb's raillery; My way-worn countryman, who calls

Nor own for once thou thoughtst of one, On distant England's name.

Who ever thinks on thee.

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MAY 9, 1810.

Δεύτε παίδες των Ελλήνων
If, in the month of dark December, Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt
Leander, who was nightly wont

to revolutionize Greece. The following trans

lation is as literal as the author could make (What maid will not the tale remember?) it in verse; it is of the same measure as that To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! of the original.

Sons of the Greeks, arise !
If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,

The glorious hour's gone forth,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thuis of old thy current pour'd,

And, worthy of such ties,
Fair Venus! how I pity both !

Display who gave us birth.


Sons of Greeks! let us go For me, degenerate modern wretch,

Though in the genial month of May, In arms against the foe, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,

Till their hated blood shall flow And think I've done a feat to-day.

In a river past our feet. But since he cross'd the rapid tide,

Then manfully despising
According to the doubtful story,

The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
To woo, - and-Lord knows what beside, Let your country see you rising,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

And all her chains are broke.

Brave shades of chiefs and sages, Twere hard to say who fared the best: Behold the coming strife!

Sad mortals! thus theGods still plague you! Hellenes of past ages, He lost his labour, I my jest:

Oh, start again to life!
For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. At the sound of my trumpet, breaking

Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven-hill'd city seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, ete.

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

Lethargic dost thou lie?
Awake, and join thy numbers

With Athens, old ally!
Maid of Athens, ere we part,

Leonidas recalling, Give, oh, give me back my heart !

That chief of ancient song, Or, since that has left my breast,

Who saved ye once from falling, Keep it now, and take the rest!

The terrible! the strong! Hear my vow before I go,

Who made that bold diversion Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

In old Thermopylæ,

And warring with the Persian By those tresses unconfined,

To keep his country free; Woo'd by each Ægean wind;

With his three hundred waging
By those lids whose jetty fringe

The battle, long he stood,
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; And like a lion raging,
By those wild eyes like the roe,

Expired in seas of blood.
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

Sons of Greeks, etc.

ATHENS, 1810.

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

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.

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC Thy parting-glance, which fondly Beams, SONG

An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams Μπενω μες τσ' περιβολι '

Can weep no change in me. 'Ωραιότατη Χαηδη.

I ask no pledge to make me blest The song from which this is taken is a great Nor one memorial for a breast,

In gazing when alone;
favourite with the young girls of Athens of all
classes. Their manner of singing it is by ver- Whose thoughts are all thine owa.
ses in rotation, the whole number preseni join-
ing in the chorus. I have heard it frequently Nor need I write-to tell the tale
at our "zópoi” in the winter of 1810–11.
The air is plaintive and pretty.

My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak ?
I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidee,

By day or night, in weal or woe,
Each morning where Flora reposes,

That heart, no longer free, For surely I see her in thee.

Must bear the love it cannot show,
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

And silent ache for thee
Receive this fond truth from my tonguo,
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


WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot, Shines the soul of the young Haidee.

And say, what Truth might well have said,

By all, save one, percbance forgot, But the loveliest garden grows hateful Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid ?

When Love has abandon'd the bowers ; By many a shore and many a sea Bring me hemlock_since mine is ungrateful, Divided, yet beloved in vain;

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The past, the future fled to thee The poison, when poard from the chalice, To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! Will deeply embitter the bowl;

Could this have been - a word, a look But when drunk to escape from thy malice, That softly said, “We part in peace,"

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Had taught my bosom how to brook, Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. My heart from these horrors to save: And didst thou not, since Death for thee Will nought to my bosom restore thee?

Prepared a light and pangless dart, Then open the gates of the grave. Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart? As the chief who to combat advances

Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here? Secure of his conquest before,

Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, In that dread hour ere death appear, Hast pierced through my heart to its core.

When silent Sorrow fears to sigh, Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish

Till all was past? But when no more

'Twas thine to reck of human woe, By pangs which a smile would dispel ? Would the hope, which thou once badst Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

me cherish,

Had flow'd as fast- as now they flow. For torture repay me too well ?

Shall they not flow, when many a day Now sad is the garden of roses,

In these, to me, deserted towers, Beloved but false Haidee!

Ere call'd but for a time away, There Flora all wither'd reposes,

Affection's mingling tears were ours? And mourns d'er thine absence with me. Ours too the glance none saw beside;

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. Tho kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left, The tone, that taught me to rejoice, Shall never part from mine,

When prone, unlike thee, to repine ; Till happier hours restore the gift The song, celestial from thy voice, Untainted back to thine.

But sweet to me from none but thine ;

not gaze

The pledge we wore—I wear it still, With things that never pleased before:

But where is thine?-ah, where art thou? Though every joy is fled below, Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

What future grief can touch me more 3 But never bent beneath till now! Well hast thou left in life's best bloom Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ; The cup of woe for me to drain.

Man was not form'd to live alone: If rest alone be in the tomb,

I'll be that light unmeaning thing, I would not wish thee here again;

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. But if in worlds more blest than this It was not thus in days more dear, Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,

It never would have been, but thou Impart some portion of thy bliss,

Hast fled, and left me lonely here; To wean me from mine anguish here. Thou’rt nothing, all are nothing now. Teach me, too early taught by thee! To bear, forgiving and forgiven:

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe! On earth thy love was such to me,

The smile that sorrow fain would wear It fain would form my hope in heaven! 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! AWAY, Away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, On many a lone and lovely night Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!

It soothed to gaze upon the sky; I dare not trust those sounds again. For then I deem'd the heavenly light To me they speak of brighter days— Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye; But lull the chords, for now,


And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, I must not think, I may

When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, On what I am, on what I was.

"Now Thyrza gazes on that moon

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! The voice that made those sounds more sweet

Is hush’d, and all their charms are fled; When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And now their softest notes repeat

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! «« 'Tis comfort still,” I faintly said, Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, “That Thyrza cannot know my pains :

Beloved dust! since dust thou art; Like freedom to the time-worn slave, And all that once was harmony

A boon 'tis idle then to give, Is worse than discord to my heart! Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! 'Tis silent all !-but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill; My Thyrza's pledge in better days, I hear a voice I would not hear,

When love and life alike were new! A voice that now might well be still; How different now thou meetst my gaze! Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake : How tinged by time with sorrow's hue!

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, The heart that gave itself with thee Till consciousness will vainly wake

Is silent-ah, were mine as still! To listen, though the dream be flown. Though cold as e'en the dead can be,

It feels, it sickens with the chill. Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dream; Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Though painful, welcome to my breast! Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, But he, who through life's dreary way Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest!

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Time tempers love, but not removes, Will long lament the vanish'd ray

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. Oh! what are thousand living loves

To that which cannot quit the dead ?


EUTHANASIA. Ons struggle more, and I am free

Froin pangs that rend my heart in twain; When Time, or soon or late, shall bring One last long sigh to love and thee,

T'he dreainless sleep that lulls the dead, Then back to busy life again.

Oblivion! inay thy languid wing It saite we well to mingle now

Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

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