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Clouds burst, skies ilash, oh, dreadful hour !

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

To keep my bosom yarm.
While wand'ring through each broken path

D'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,

Impelld 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 halla,

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 halt-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 ono

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.



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 he!!),

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 curld !
I cannot lose a world for thee,
But would not lose thee for a world.

November 14. 1909


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.

• The lady referred to in this and the two following pieces-the wife of Mr. Spencer @mith, and daughter of Baron Herbert, Austrian ambassador at Constantinople, where She was born-was a very remarkable person, and experienced a variety of striking adventures. She was unhappy in her marriage, yet of unblemished reputation ; had engaged in some plots against Bonaparte, which excited his vengeance; was made prisoner, but subsequently escaped ; afterwards suffered shipwreck-and all before she was twenty-five years of age. The poet met her at Malta, on her way to England to join her husband ; and these poems, and a reference to her in " Childe Harold," are memo. niels of their brief scquaintance.




" Farr Albion, siniling, sees her son depart,

To trace the birth aud nursery of art:
Noble his object, glorious is his aim ;
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name 1"


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.


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 !
Hear 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 tingo;
By those wild

Ζώη μ» ύ, σάς αγαπώ.
By that lip I long to taste ;
By that zone-encircled waist;
Bv all the token-flowers that tell *
What words can never speak so will;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.
Maid of Athens ! I am gone :
Think of me, sweet ! when aloro.

like the roe,

• Romnic expression of tenderness: if I translate it, I shall affront the gentlemen, aa it my seroi that I supposed they could not; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies, For fear of any inisconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, begging pardon of the learn.d. It means, “My life, I love you!" which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is ins much in fashion in Greece at this day, as, Juvenai tells us, the two Arst word: 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 assigna. tions) thuivers, citlers, pebbles, &c., couvey 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 tiyil with hair, “ Take me and fly;" but > pebble declared-what nothing else cudi.

Though I fly to Istamhol,*
Athens holds my heart and soul;
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Ζώη μου, σάς αγαπώ.

Athoms 1816.


IF, in the month of dark December,

Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)

To cross thy streann, broad Hellespont !
If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,

He sped to Hero, nothing loath,
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 besido,

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.

May 9, 1810.

DEAR object of defeated care!

Though now of love and thee bereft,
To reconcile me with despair,

Thine image and my tears are left. • Constantinople.

On the 3rd of May, 1810, while the " Salsette" (Captain Bathurst) was lying in ths Dardanelles, Lieutenant Eken head of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam from the European shore to the Asiatic-by the bye, from Abydos to Sestos would havo been more correct. The whole distance from the place whence we started to vur 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 iniles ; though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapity 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 nour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold, from the melting of the mountain Allows. 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 vastles, when we swain the straits, as just stated;

entering & considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress ; and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our 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, es doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no traveller bad over ondoavoured ascertain its practicability.



"Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope;

But this, I feel can ne'er be true;
For by the death-blow of my Hope

My Memory immortal grew.


« 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 the 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 chiefs 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-hilld city seeking, t
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, &c.
Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers

Lethargic dost thou lie ?
Awake, and join thy numbers

With Athens, old ally!
Leonidas recalling,

That chief of ancient song,
Who saved ye once from falling,

The terrible ! the strong!
Who made that bold diversion

In old Thermopylæ,
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,
Expired in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

The song was written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. This translation is as literal as the author could make it in verve. It is of the same measure as that of the original.

+ Constantinople

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