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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;

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.

Then think upon Calypso's isles,

Endear'd by days gone by ; To others give a thousand smiles,

To me a single sigh.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM

SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

And when the admiring circle mark

The paleness of thy face,
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark

or inelancholy grace, Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun

Some coxcomb's raillery ; Nor own for once thou thought'st on 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.

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 swain 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.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF.

TUIROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,

Full beams the moon on Actium's coast : And on these waves, for Egypt's queen,

The ancient world was won and los:.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS

BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.

And now upon the scene I look,

The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook

His wavering crown to follow woman.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:

*FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart To trace the birth and nursery of art:

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: Hlad bards as many realins as rhymes,

Thy charms might raise new Antonies.

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.

* On the 3rd of May 1810, while the Salsetle, (Cap. tain Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieu. tenant Ekenhead of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam from the European shore to the Asiatic-by the by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. The whole distance from the place whence we started to our landing on the other

side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles, though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across; and it may. in some measure, be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold, from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt ; but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the

frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as just stated; entering a considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the saine distance for his mistress, and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circunstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished

THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS

FLOWN!
WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810.
THE spell is broke, the charın is flown!

Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan;

Delirium is our best deceiver:

• Mrs. Spencer Smith,

Noble his object, glorious is his aim;

'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope; He comes to Athens, and he writes his name.'

But this I feel can ne'er be true:
BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE

For by the death-blow of my Hope
FOLLOWING:

My Memory immortal grew.
THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own; TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK.
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse,

WAR SONG His name would bring more credit than his ver se.

Δεύτε παίδες των Ελλήνων.*

SONS of the Greeks, arise !
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

The glorious hour's gone forth,
Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

And, worthy of such ties,

Display who gave us birth.
MAID of Athens, ere we part,

CHORUS
Give, oh give me back my heart !
Or, since that has left my breast,

Sons of Greeks ! let us go
Keep it now, and take the rest !

In arms against the foe,

Till their hated blood shall flow
Hear my vow before I go,
Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ.*

In a river past our feet.

Then manfully despising
By those tresses unconfined,

The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
Wood by each Ægean wind :
By those lids whose jetty fringe

Let your country see you rising,

And all her chains are broke.
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;

Brave shades of chiess and sages,
By those wild eyes like the roe,

Behold the coming strife!
Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

Hellénes of past ages,
By that lip I long to taste;

Oh, start again to life!
By that zone-encircled waist;

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
By all the token-flowers that tellt

Your sleep, oh, join with me!
What words can never speak so well ;

And the seven hillid city seeking, t
By love's alternate joy and woe,

Fight, conquer, till we're free.
Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

Sons of Greeks, etc.
Maid of Athens! I am gone :

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Think of ine, sweet! when alone.

Lethargic dost thou lie?
Though I fy to Istambol, I

A wake, and join thy numbers

With Athens, old ally!
Athens holds my heart and soul:

Leonidas recalling,
Can I cease to love thee? No!

That chief of ancient song,
Σώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

Who saved thee once from falling,

The terrible ! the strong!

Who made that bold divcrsion
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.

In old Thermopylä,
DEAR object of defeated care!

And warring with the Persian
Though now of love and thee bereft,

To keep his country free;
To reconcile me with despair,

With his three hundred waging
Thine image and my tears are left.

The battle, long he stood,

And like a lion raging, a greater distance; and the only thing that surprised

Expired in seas of blood. me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the

Sons of Greeks, etc. truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability: Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it,

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG. I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seein that I Suppose they could not; and if I do not, I may affront

Μπενω

μες

'τσπεριβόλι the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, begging pardon of the

'Ωραιότατη Χάηδή, etc.: learned. It means, .My life, I love you!" which

I ENTER thy garden of roses, sounds very prettily in all languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day, as, Juvenal tells us,

Beloved and fair Haidée, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, Each morning where Flora reposes, whose erotic expressions were all Hellenized.

For surely I see lier in thee. # In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble assignations), flowers, cinders, pebbles, etc., convey the sentiments of the parties, by • The song was written by Riga, who perished in that universal deputy of Mercury-an old woman. A the attempt to revolutionize Greece. This translation cinder says, 'I burn for thee;' a bunch of flowers tied is as literal as the author could make it in verse. It is with hair, Take me and fly;' but a pebble declares of the same measure as that of the original. what nothing else can.

+ Constantinople. Constantinople.

| The song from which this is taken is a great

Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS
Receive this fond truth from my tongue,

BROKEN.
Which utters its song to adore thee,

ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be,
Yet trenibles for what it has sung ;

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain?
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,

Haye years of care for thine and thee
Through her eyes, through her every feature,

Alike been all employ'd in vain :
Shines the soul of the young Haidée.

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,
But the loveliest garden grows hateful

And every fragment dearer grown,
When Love has abandon'd the bowers;

Since he who wears thee feels thou art
Bring me hemlock-since mine is ungrateful,

A fitter emblem of his own,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,
Will deeply embitter the bowl ;

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.*
But when drunk to escape from thy malice,
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.

WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ;
My heart from these horrors to save :

Ah! happy if each tear of thine
Will naught to my bosom restore thee?

Could wash a father's fault away!
Then open the gates of the grave.

Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears, As the chief who to combat advances

Auspicious to these suffering isles:
Secure of his conquest before,

And be each drop in future years
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,

Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! Hast pierced through my heart to its core. Ah, tell me, my soul, must I perish By pangs which a smile would dispel ?

THE CHAIN I GAVE,
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me

FROM THE TURKISH.
cherish,
For torture repay me too well ?

THE chain I gave was fair to view,
Now sad is the garden of roses,

The lute I added sweet in sound;
Beloved but false Haidée !

The heart that offer'd both was true,
There Flora all wither'd reposes,

And ill deserved the fate it found.
And mourns o'er thine absence with me.

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,

Thy truth in absence to divine;

And they have done their duty well,--
ON PARTING.

Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,

That chain was firm in every link,
Till happier hours restore the gift

But not to bear a stranger's touch;
Untainted back to thine.

That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think

In other hands its notes were such.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:

Let him who from thy neck unbound
The tear that from thine eyelid streams

The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Can weep no change in me.

Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Re-string the chords, renew the clasp.
I ask no pledge to make ine blest
In gazing when alone;

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
Nor one memorial for a breast,

The chain is broke, the music mute.
Whose thoughts are all thine own.

'Tis past-to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
Nor need write--to tell the tale

My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could spcak?

ADDRESS,
By day or night, in weal or woe,

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY LANE
That heart, no longer free,

THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ;

In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, favourite with the young girls of Athens of all classes.

Apollo sink, and SHakspeare cease to reign. Their manner of singing it is by verses in rotation, the whole number present joining in the chorus. The air is plaintive and pretty.

* The Princess Charlotte.

Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven, So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven: And reason's voice bc echoed back by ours!
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd,
While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome,

The Drama's homage by her herald paid. Shrank back appalld, and trembled for their home,

Receive our welcome too, whose every tone As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone

Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,

The curtain rises-may our stage unfold Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall

Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark d her fall;

Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,

Still may we please-long, long may you preside. Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy liim and you ?

VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOL'SE Yes-it shall be the magic of that name

AT HALES-OWEN. Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame;

WHEN Dryden's fool,* "unknowing what he sought, On the same spot still consecrates the scene,

His hours in whistling spent, 'for want of thought, And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spell

This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense Indulge our honest pride, and say, Hot well!

Supplied, and amply too, by innocence.

Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers, As soars this fane to emulate the last,

In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, ses Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast

These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.

Severe the fate of modern sools, alas! On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art

When vice and folly mark them as they pass, O'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormid the sternest heart. Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew;

The filth they leave still points out where they crawl. Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE! That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse

REMEMBER thee! remember thee! One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream, With garlands deck your own Menander's head,

Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

And haunt thee like a feverish dream!
Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.

Thy husband too shall think of thee:
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,

By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the unirror hold, where imaged shine

TO TIME.
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line,
Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,

TIME! on whose arbitrary wing
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

The varying hours must fag or fly,

Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
Friends of the stage! to whom both Players an'l

But drag or drive us on to die-
Plays
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,

Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct

Those boons to all that know thee known; The boundless power to cherish or reject;

Yet better I sustain thy load,
If e'er frivolity has led to faine,

For now I bear the weight alone.
And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend

I would not one fond neart should share
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,

The bitter moments thou hast given; All past reproach may present scenes refute,

And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare And censure, wisely loud, be justly inute !

All that I loved, to peace or heaven.

Sheridan.

* See Dryden's 'Cymon and Iphigenia.'

To tliem be joy or rest, on me

My light of life! ah, tell me why Thy future ills shall press in vain :

That pouting lip and alter'd eye? I nothing owe but years to thee,

My bird of love ! my beauteous mate! A debt already paid in pain.

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? Yet even that pain was some relief,

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erfiow: It felt, but still forgot thy power :

What wretch with me would barter woe? The active agony of grief

My bird ! relent: one note could give Retards, but never counts the hour.

A charm, to bid thy lover live. In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, Would soon subside from swift to slow;

In silent anguish I sustain ; Thy cloud could overcast the light,

And still thy heart, without partaking But could not add a night woe;

One pang, exults—while mine is breaking. For them, however drear and dark,

Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! My soul was suited to thy sky;

Thou canst not murder more than now: One star alone shot forth a spark

I've lived to curse my natal day, To prove thee--not Eternity.

And Love, that thus can lingering slay. That beam hath sunk, and now thou art A blank; a thing to count and curse,

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, Through each dull tedious trisling part,

Can patience preach thee into rest? Which all regret, yet all rehearse.

Alas! too late, I dearly know

That joy is harbinger of woe.
Onc 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:

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU

ART FICKLE.
And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,

THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak

To those thyself so fondly sought; Must fall upon-a nameless stone.

The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought :

'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE

Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest. SONG.

The wholly false the heart despises, AH! Love was never yet without

And spurns deceiver and deceit ; The pang, the agony, the doubt,

But she who not a thought disguises, Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, While day and night roll darkling by.

When she can change who loved so truly, Without one friend to hear my woe,

It feels what mine has felt so newly.
I faint, I die beneath the blow,
That love had arrows well I knew;

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow,

Is doom'd to all who love or live; Alas! I find them poison'd too.

And if, when conscious on the morrow, Birds, yet in freedoni, shun the net

We scarce our fancy can forgive, Which love around your haunts hath set;

That cheated us in slumber only, Or, circled by his fatal fire,

To leave the waking soul inore lonely, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

What must they feel whom no false vision, A bird of free and careless wing

But truest, tenderest passion warınd? Was I, through many a smiling spring:

Sincere, but swift in sad transition; But caught within the subtle srare,

As if a dream alone had charm'1 ? I hurn, and feebly flutter there.

Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,

And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 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.

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE

ORIGIN OF LOVE.'
In flat ng dreams I deem'd thce mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;

THE 'Origin of Love !--Ah, why
Like melting wax, or withering flower,

That cruel question ask of me, I feel my passion, and thy power.

When thou may'st read in many an cya

He starts to life on seeing thee?

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