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Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn: To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one,-and here he lies.

TO A LADY,

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING
ENGLAND IN THE SPRING.

WHEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers,
A moment linger'd near the gate,
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.
But, wandering on through distant climes
He learnt to bear his load of grief;
Just gave a sigh to other times,

And found in busier scenes relief.

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.

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 reproached, 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 sweeter in its phantasy,

Than if for other hearts I burn'd,

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 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.

THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT
NAME.

THERE was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same

As still my soul hath been to thee.
And from that hour, when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown, and thus unfelt by thine,

None, none hath sunk so deep as thisTo 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, but most unkind! Though thou wilt never love again, To me 'tis doubly sweet to find

Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 'tis 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?

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.

O lady! blessed be that tear

It falls for one who cannot weep;
Such precious drops are doubly dear
To those 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.

FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN.
A SONG.

FILL the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to
its core;

Let us drink!-who would not ?-since, through life's varied round,

In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have loved !-who has not ?-but what heart can declare,

That pleasure existed while passion was there? In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,

And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends!-who has not ?-but what tongue

will avow,

That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam-thou never canst change;

Thou grow'st old!-who does not ?-but on earth what appears, [years? Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to your idol below, We are jealous!-who's not ?-thou hast no such alloy;

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 ; [soul, There we find-do we not?-in the flow of the That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was open'd 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. Long life to the grape! for when summer has flown,

The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: We must die-who shall not ?-May our sins be forgiven,

And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.

STANZAS TO A LADY,* ON LEAVING
ENGLAND.

'Tis done-and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;

⚫ Mrs Musters, formerly Mary Chaworth

And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the freshening 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 blest-
I should not seek another zone
Because I cannot love but one.

'Tis 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.

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 friend 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 woe--
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 see;
And why that early love was crost,
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.

LINES TO MR HODGSON.

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,

Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvas 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.

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.

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.
'Heyday! call you that a cabin?

Why 'tis hardly three feet square: Not enough to stow Queen 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.'

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 hatchway 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.'

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,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,

Let's have laughing

Who the devil cares for more?Some good wine! and who would lack it, Ev'n on board 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 : 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. And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wanderer, 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 wondrous scene, Since where thou art I may not dwell,

'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been.

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.

STANZAS

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND WHILE BEWILDERED NEAR MOUNT PINDUS 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 path have crost,
Or gild the torrent's spray.

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 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,
Impell'd thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
Hast trod the shore of Spain;
'Twere 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 THE AMBRACIAN GULF.

THROUGH 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.

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.

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.+

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,

⚫ Mrs Spencer Smith.

On the 3rd of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bathirst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant 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 grate, as just stated; entering a considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swan the same distance for his mistress, and Ouver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but er consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's y no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its pracDicabuity.

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;

'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.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVEL-
LERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.

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:

THE 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.

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.
Ζώη μοῦ, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

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, σᾶς 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 μου, σᾶς 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, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.

⚫ Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it, I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I suppose they could not; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, 'My life, I love you! which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day, as, Juvenal tells us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic expressions were all Hellenized.

In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble assignations), flowers, cinders, pebbles, &c., convey the sentiments of the parties, by that universal deputy of Mercury-an old woman. A cinder says, I burn for thee;' a bunch of flowers tied with hair, Take me and fly;' but a pebble declares-what nothing else can.

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