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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,
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,
Fair Venus ! how I pity both!
Though in the genial month of May,
And think I've done a feat to-day.
According to the doubtful story,
And swain for Love, as I for glory;
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.
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
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
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:
For by the death-blow of my Hope
My Memory immortal grew.
WAR SONG His name would bring more credit than his ver se.
Δεύτε παίδες των Ελλήνων.*
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.
Then manfully despising
The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
Let your country see you rising,
And all her chains are broke.
Brave shades of chiess and sages,
Behold the coming strife!
Hellénes of past ages,
Oh, start again to life!
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven hillid city seeking, t
Fight, conquer, till we're free.
Sons of Greeks, etc.
Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Lethargic dost thou lie?
A wake, and join thy numbers
With Athens, old ally!
That chief of ancient song,
Who saved thee once from falling,
The terrible ! the strong!
Who made that bold divcrsion
In old Thermopylä,
And warring with the Persian
To keep his country free;
With his three hundred waging
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 truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever en
Sons of Greeks, etc. deavoured 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
'τσ’ περιβόλι 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
ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be,
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain?
Haye years of care for thine and thee
Alike been all employ'd in vain :
Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,
And every fragment dearer grown,
Since he who wears thee feels thou art
A fitter emblem of his own,
LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.*
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ;
Ah! happy if each tear of thine
Could wash a father's fault away!
Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears, As the chief who to combat advances
Auspicious to these suffering isles:
And be each drop in future years
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,
FROM THE TURKISH.
THE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,--
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think
In other hands its notes were such.
Let him who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Re-string the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute.
'Tis past-to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
My pen were doubly weak:
SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY LANE
THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.
IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
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,
This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd,
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,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream!
Thy husband too shall think of thee:
By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!
TIME! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must fag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die-
Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd
Those boons to all that know thee known; The boundless power to cherish or reject;
Yet better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond neart should share
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.
* 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.
The limit of thy sloth or speed,
THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU
THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
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.
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.'
THE 'Origin of Love !--Ah, why
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?