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And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ?
Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress ?
Ah! who would think that form had past

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

Where free Byzantium once arose ; And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; Though mightiest in the lists of fame,

That glorious city still shall be ;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,

As spot of thy nativity:
And though I bid thee now farewell,

When I behold that wond'rous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been.

September, 1809. STANZAS


NOVEMBER 14, 1809.

TAROUGH 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 lost.

2. And now upon the scene I look, The azure grave

many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook

His wavering crown to follow woman,


3. 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 :
Had bards as many realms as rhymes,

Thy charms might raise new Anthonies.


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.


Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night, in a thunder-storm,

when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of moun. tains formerly called Pindus, in Albania.


Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,

Where Pindus' mountains rise,

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 path have crost,

Or gild the torrent's spray.

3. Is yon a cot I saw, though low?

When lightning broke the gloomHow welcome were its shade !-ah, no!

'Tis but a Turkish tomb.


Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,

I hear a voice exclaim
My way-worn countryman, who calls

On distant England's name.


A shot is fired-by foe or friend?

Another-'tis to tell
The mountain-peasants to descend,

And lead us where they dwell.


Oh! who in such a night will dare

To tempt the wilderness?
And who 'mid thunder peals can hear

Our signal of distress?


And who that heard our shouts would rise To try

the dubious road? Nor rather deem from nightly cries

That outlaws were abroad.


Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!

More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought has still the power

To keep my bosom warm.


While wand'ring through each broken path,

O'er brake and craggy brow; While elements exhaust their wrath, Sweet Florence, where art thou ?

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