Thus, lady! will it be with me,

And I must view thy charms no more ; For, while I linger near to thee,

I sigh for all I knew before.
In flight I shall be surely wise,

Escaping from temptation's snare,
I cannot view my paradise
Without the wish of dwelling there.

December 2, 1808.

None, none hath sunk so deep as this

To think how all that love hath flown; Transient as every faithless kiss,

But transient in thy breast alone. And yet my heart some solace knew,

When late I heard thy lips declare, In accents once imagined true,

Remembrance of the days that were. Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!

Though thou wilt never love again, To me 't is doubly sweet to find

Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me,

Nor longer shall my soul repine, Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM

LOW!

REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT.
REMIND me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,

When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till time unnerves our vital powers,

And thou and I shall cease to be.
Can I forget-canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,

How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,

And lips, though silent, breathing love.
When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,

As half reproach'd yet raised desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,

As if in kisses to expire.
And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,

Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,

Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.
I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream

Was sweetcr in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'd,
For eyes that like thine could heam

In rapture's wild reality.
Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though for ever gone,

Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Till thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone

Which tells that we shall be no more.

AND wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so

I would not give that bosom pain. My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,

My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine: And for a while my sorrows cease,

To know thy heart hath felt for mine. Oh lady! blessed be that tear

It falls for one who cannot wecp; Such precious drops are doubly dear

To tbose whose eyes no tear may steep. Sweet lady! once my heart was warm

With every feeling soft as thine;
But beauty's self hath ceased to charm

A wretch created to repine.
Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again:
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so-

I would not give that bosom pain.

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below, (alloy ;
We are jealous !-who's not?-thou hast no such
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find do we not?-in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.
When the box of Pandora was opened on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left,-was she not?-but the goblet we

kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where friendship's or love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But frien

or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.
I go—but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
To think of every early scene,
of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woo-
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
And who that dear loved one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to sce;
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most:
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu ;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.

1809.

Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own :
We must die-who shall not ?-May our sins be for-
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. igiven,

STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING

ENGLAND.

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET.

T is done-and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail; And whistling o'er the bending mast, Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; And I must from this land be gone, Because I cannot love but one. But could I be what I have been, And could I see what I have seen Could I repose upon the breast Which once my warmest wishes blestI should not seek another zone Because I cannot love but one. 'T is long since I beheld that eye Which gave me bliss or misery; And I have striven, but in vain, Never to think of it again : For though I fly from Albion, I still can only love but one. As some lone bird, without a mate, My weary heart is desolate; I look around, and cannot trace One friendly smile or welcome face, And ev'n in crowds am still alone, Because I cannot love but one.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,

Our embargo 's off at last; Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvass o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming,

Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired.

Here's a rascal

Come to task all,
Prying from the custom-house;

Trunks unpacking,

Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse

'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Sick or well, at sea or shore;

While we're quafing,

Let's have laughing-
Who the devil cares for more?
Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Ey'n on board the Lisbon Packet?

Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.

(First published, 1830.]

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,

And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering,

* We're impatient, push from shore. “Have a care! that case holds liquor

Stop the boat-I'm sick-oh Lord!” Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker Ere you've been an hour on board.”

Thus are screaming

Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;

Here entangling,

All are wrangling,
Stuck together close as wax.-
Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

TO FLORENCE. Oh Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more

To quit another spot on earth:

Yet here, amidst this barren isle,

Where panting Nature droops the head, Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albin's craggy shore,

Divided by the dark-blue main; A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er,

Perchance I view her cliffs again :

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in,

Some to grumble, some to spew. “leyday! call you that a cabin?

Why 't is hardly three feet square: Not enough to stow Qucen Mab inWho the deuce can harbour there?"

“ Who, sir? plenty

Nobles twenty
Did at once my vessel fill."-

“ Did they? Jesus,

How you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so still :
Then I'd scape the heat and racket
of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.”

But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

Through scorching clime, and varied sea, Though Time restore me to my home,

I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee:

On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word-to love.

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend.

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?

Stretch'd along the deck like logs, Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!

Here's a rope's end for the dogs. Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,

As the hatch way down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth-and damns our souls.

“ Here's a stanza

On Braganza-
Help!”-“A couplet ?"-"No, a cup

of warm water-"

“ What's the matter?" “Zounds! my liver 's coming up; I shall not survive the racket of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

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 aroso, And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;

Now at length we're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back! Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on-as I do now.

Laugh at all things,
Great and small things,

Though mightiest in the lists of famo,

That glorious city still shall be;
On me 't will hold a dearer claim,

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

When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
T will soothe to be where thou hast been.

September, 1809. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT

MALTA.
As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,

May mine attract thy pensive eye!
And when by thee that name is read,

Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.

September 14, 1809.

STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A

THUNDER-STORM.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now

Hast trod the shore of Spain; "T were hard if aught 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, amid the fair white walls,

If Cadiz yet be free,
At times from out her latticed halls

Look o'er the dark blue sea;
Then think upon Calypso's isles,

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

To me a single sigh.
And when the admiring circle mark

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

Of melancholy 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.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING TIIE

AMBRACIAN GULF.

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 path 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.
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-t is 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 wandering through each broken path,

O'er brake and craggy brow;
While elements exhaust their wrath,

Sweet Florence, where art thou?
Not on the sea, not on the sea,

Thy bark hath long been gone:
Oh, may the storm that pours on me,

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.

THROUGII cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,

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

The ancient world was won and lost. 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. 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 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.

Nov. 14, 1809.

THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS

FLOWN!
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 TO ABYDOS.

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 αγαπω
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 μου, σας αγαπώ.

Athens, 1810.

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, 1 my jest; For he was drown'd, and I've the ague.

May 9, 1810.

TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE'S DOLE

IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES.
Oh how I wish that an embargo
Had kept in port the good ship Argo!
Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks,
Had never pass'd the Azure rocks;
But now I fear her trip will be a
Damn'd business for my Miss Medea, &c. &c.

June, 1810.

MY EPITAPH. YOUTH, Nature, and relenting Jove, To keep my lamp in strongly strove; But Romanelli was so stout, He beat all three-and blero it out.

Oct. 1810.

LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK

AT ORCHOMENUS.

SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. KIND Rcader! take your choice to cry or laugh; Here HAROLD lies—but where's his Epitaph? If such you seek, try Westminster, and view Ten thousand just as fit for him as you.

Athens.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:

"FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
To trace the birth and nursery of art:
Noble his object, glorious is his aim;
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name.”

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE

FOLLOWING: TAE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, His name would bring more credit than his verse.

1810.

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.
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!
Hcar my vow before I go,
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.
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 roc,
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK

WAR SONG.
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.

CHORUS.
Sons of Greeks! let us go
In arms against the foe,
Till their hated blood shall flow

In a river past our feet.