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Not on the sea, not on the sea,
Thy bark hath long been gone: Oh, may the storm that pours on nie,
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,
Impellid 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; Nor own for once thou thought'st of one,
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: We madly smile when we should groan;
Delirium is our best deceiver, Each lucid interval of thought
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
MAY 9, 1810.
IF, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!
If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
Though in the genial month of May,
And think I've done a feat to-day.
But since he cross'd the rapid tide,
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 μ8, σας αγαπώ. (2)