STANZAS

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM

[This storm occurred on the night of October 11, 1809, when Byron's guides had lost the road to Zitza 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 paths 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!
"T is but a Turkish tomb.

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II

In darkest glances seems to roll,
From eyes that cannot hide their flashes:
And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curl'd to give her neck caresses.

Our English maids are long to woo,
And frigid even in possession;
And if their charms be fair to view,

Their lips are slow at Love's confession:

But, born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is, And who, when fondly, fairly won,

Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz ?

The Spanish maid is no coquette,

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble. Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; And, though it will not bend to gold,

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'T will love you long and love you dearly.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING
FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS
IF, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember ?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont !

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!

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;

'T were 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. May 9, 1810. [First published, 1812.]

'MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART'

Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

[Supposed to be Theresa Macri, who afterwards married Mr. Black, an Englishman.]

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,

Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μοῦ, σάς 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,
Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

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 μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

ATHENS, 1810. [First published, 1812.]

FRAGMENT FROM THE MONK OF ATHOS'

[First published in Noel's Life of Lord Byron, 1890. The manuscript was given to the author of the Life by S. McCalmont Hill, who inherited it from his great-grandfather, Robert Dallas. The date and occasion of the poem are unknown.]

BESIDE the confines of the Egean main, Where northward Macedonia bounds the flood,

And views opposed the Asiatic plain, Where once the pride of lofty Ilion stood, Like the great Father of the giant brood, With lowering port majestic Athos stands, Crown'd with the verdure of eternal wood, As yet unspoil'd by sacrilegious hands, And throws his mighty shade o'er seas and distant lands.