Obrazy na stronie

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 bere 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 sca, 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 Jong cre now, with foaming shock,

Impellid thy gallant ship.
Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now

Hast trod the shore of Spain :
'T were hard if ought 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 amidst the fair white walls,

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

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

Endcard by days gone by ;
To others give a thousand smiles,

To me a single sigh.
And wlien 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 of one,

Who ever thinks on thee.

Yet here, amidst this barren isle,

Where panting nature droops the licad, Where only thou art scen to smile,

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

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

Perchance I view her cliffs again. But whcresoe'er I now may roam,

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

I ne'er shall bend minc 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 oli! forgive the word- to love. Forgive the word in one who neer

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!
All! who would think that form had past

Through Danger's most destructive patlı,
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 lialls

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

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 last been.

September, 1809.


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

Recals the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought,

But lives, as saints have died, a wartyr,

Thougla 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.

TO ***

WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. Dear object of defeated care!

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

Tbine image and my tears are left. "T is said with sorrow timc can cope;

But this I feel can ne'er be true : For by the death-blow of my liope

My memory immortal grew,

Ou Lady! wlien I left the shore,

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

To quit another spot on earth.

Gr. Tennyson, The Lover's

Tale', ist. They said the Swewe die, sté.

By those tresses unconfined,

Wood by each #gean wind;

By those lids whose jetty fringe
MAY 9, 1810.

Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming linge,

By those wild eyes like the roe, Jy in the month of dark December,

Ζώη μού, σας αγαπώ.
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)

By that lip I long to taste ;
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!

By that zone-encircled waist;
If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,

By all the token-tlowers' that tell
He sped to Hero, nothing loath,

What words can never speak so well;
And thus of old thy current pourd,

By love's alternate joy and woe,
Fair Venus ! how I pity both!

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.
For me, degenerate modern wretch,

Maid of Athens! I am gone;
Though in the genial month of May,

Think of me, sweet, wbea alone. --
My dripping limbs I firintly stretch,

Though Illy to Istambol,
And think I've done it feat to-day.

Atheus bolds my heart and soul:
But since he cross'd the rapid tide,

Can I cease to love thee! No!
According to the doubiful story,

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπά.
To woo,-and-Lord kuows 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 playue you!

He lost his labour, I my jest,
For he was drown'd, and I've the aque.

Δεύτε, παίδες των Ελλήνων, ,
Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Grenor

The following translation is as literal as the author could make it is
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ."

verse; it is of the same measure as that of the original (pair). ATUENS, 1810.

Sons of the Greeks, arise!
Map of Athens, cre we part,

The glorious hour 's gone forth,
Give, ob, give me back my heart."

And, worthy of such ties,
Or, since that has left my breast,

Display who gave us birth.
Keep it now, and take the rest !

Hear my vow before I go,

Sons of Greeks, let us to
Ζώη μού, σας αγαπώ.

In arms against the foe, 1 On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bathurst) was

Till their bated blood shall flow lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutnant Ekeubead of that frigate and the

In a river past our feet. 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

Then manfully despising on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, The Turkish tyrant's yoke, was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English

Let your country see you rising, miles ; though the actual bruadth is barely one. The rapidity of tho

And all her chains are broke, current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may in some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the whole dis

Brave shades of chiefs and sages, tance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and fivo, Behold the coming strife! and by the other in an hour and ten minutes. The water was ex- Hellénes of past ages, tremely cold from the melting of the mountain-snows. About three

Oh, start again to life! 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

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking an icy chillness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till Your sleep, ob, join with me! the frigate anchored below the castles, whon we swam the straits, as And the seven-hillid city seeking, just stated, catering a considerable way above the European, and

Fight, conquer, till we're free. landing below the Asiatic fort, Chevalier says that a young Jew swam

Sons of Greeks, etc. the same distance for his mistress; and Oliver mentions its baving been done by'a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered nei her of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A Sparta, Sparta, wliy in slumbers number of the Salsetle's crew were known to have accomplished a

Lethargic dost thou lie? greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no travel

Awake, and join thy numbers ler bad ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.

With Athens, old ally! Zoé mou, sas agapo, or Zoon pou, ous cyattő, a Romaie expression of tenderness : if I translate it I shall affront the gentlemen, scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, etc., convey the seati

In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should as it may seem that I supposed ibey could not; and if I do not, I may

ments of the parties by that universal deputy of Mercary-as old affront the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the lauter I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, «

woman. A cinder says. . I burn for thee;" a bunch of Rowers tie!

My life, I love you !- which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is

with hair, . Take me and fly ;- but a pebble declares-what working as much in fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal tells us, th two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic expressions

* Constavtinople. were all Hellenized.

s Constantinople. «Latopos."

else can.


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By day or night, in weal or woe,

That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show,

And silent ache for thee.


Μπαίνω μες το περιβόλι, ,

Ωραιότατη Χαηδή,» etc. The song from wbich this is taken is a great favourite with the young

girls of Athens of all classes. Their manner of singing it is by
verses in rotation, the whole number present joining in the chorus.
I have beard it frequently at our . xópoen in the winter of 1810-11.
The air is plaintive and pretty,
I ENTER thy garden of roses,

Beloved and fair Haidée,
Each morning where Flora reposes,

For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung.
As the branch, at the bidding of nature,

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Through her eyes, through her every feature,

Shines the soul of the young Haidée.
But the loveliest garden grows hateful

When love has abandon'd the bowers;
Bring me hemlock-since mine is ungrateful,

That herb is more fragrant than tlowers.
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,

Will deeply embitter the bowl;
But when drunk to escape from thy malice,

The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save :
Will nought to my

bosom restore thee?
Then open the gates of the grave,
As the chief who to combat advances,

Secure of his conquest before,
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,

Hast pierced through iny heart to its core.
Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish

By pangs which a smile would dispel?
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me eherisha,

For torture repay me too well?
Now sad is the garden of roses,

Beloved but false Haidée !
There Flora all wither'd reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me.

Witnout a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what truth might well have said, Dy all, save one, perchance forgol,

Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? By mauy a shore and many a sea

Divided, yet beloved in vain; The past, the future tied to thee

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! Could this have been-a word, a look,

That softly said, « We part in peace,» Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou uot, since death for thee

Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for lajm thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart? Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?

Or sadly marh'd thy glazing eye, In that dread hour ere death appear,

When silent sorrow fears to sigh, Till all was past? But when no more

*T was thine to reck of human woc, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had tlowd as fast-as now they tlow. Shall they not tlow, when many a day

In these, to me, deserted towers, Ere call'd but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours? Ours too the glance none saw beside;

The smile none else might understand ; The whisperd thought of hearts allied,

The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss so guiltless and refined,

That love each warmer wish forbore; Those

eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, Even passion blush'd to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice,

When prone, unlike thee, to repine; The song celestial from tly voice,

but sweel to me from none but thine;

ON PARTING. Tue kiss, dear maid! thy lip lias left,

Shall never part from mine,

The pledge we wore-I wear it still,

But where is thine?--ah, where art thou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now! Well hast thou left in life's best bloom

The cup of woe for me to drain. If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again; But if in worlds more blest than this

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me-too early taught by thee!

To bear, forgiving and forgiven : On earth thy love was such to me,

It fain would form my hope in heaven!

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;

Man was not form’d to live alone: I'll be that light unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear;

It never would have been, but thou Hast tled, and left me lonely here :

Thou 'rt nothing-all are nothing now.

În vain my lyre would lightly breathe!

The smile that sorrow fain would wear But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,

Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,

The heart-the heart is lonely still!


On many a lone and lovely night

It soothed to gaze upon the sky, For then I deem'd the heavenly light

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye ; And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,

When sailing o'er the Egean wave, « Now Thyrza gazes on that moon—»

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, « 'T is comfort still,» I faintly said,

« That Thyrza cannot know my pains, Like freedom to the time-worn slave,

A boon 't is idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life when Thyrza ceased to live !

Away, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence, for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter daysBut lull the chords, for now,

alas! I must not think, I may not gaze

On what I am, on what I was. The voice that made those sounds more sweet

Is husli'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an apthein o'er the dead? Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thiec,

Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart! "T is silent all!- but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still : Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake,

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be flown. Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dreamA star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he who through life's dreary way

Must pass, when licaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,

When love and life alike were new, llow different now thou meet'st my gaze!

How tinged by time with sorrow's liue! The heart that gave itself with thee

Is silent-ah, were mine as still! Though cold as even the dead can be,

It feels, it sickens with the chill.

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful tokeu !

Though painful, welcome to my brcast! Still, still prescrve that love unbroken,

Or break the licart to which thou 'rt prei! Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallowd when its hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves

To that which cannot quit the dead?



When Time, or soon or late, shall bring

The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing

Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

ONE struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before : Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

No band of friends or heirs be there,

To weep or wish the coming blow : No maiden, with dishevell d hair,

To fecl, or feign, decorous woc.

But silent let me sink to earth,

With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth,

Nor starile friendship with a fear, Yet Love, if Love in such an hour

Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives and him who dies.

'T were sweet, my Psyche, to the last

Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,

Even Pain itself should smile on thee.

The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine;
The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,

Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass'd away
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd

Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatchd,

The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering leaf by leaf,

Thao see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

But vain the wish—for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And woman's tears, produced at will,

Deceive in life, unman in death. Then lonely be my

latest hour, Without regret, without a groan! For thousands death hath ceased to lower,

And paio been transient or unknown. « Ay, but to die, and go,» alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go!
To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe!
Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,

Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,

'T is something better-not to be.

I know not if I could have bornc

To see thy beauties fade; The night that follow'd such a morn

llad worn a deeper shade: Thy day without a cloud hath past, And thou wert lovely to the last;

Extinguish d, not decay'd ; As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,

My tears might well be shed, To think I was not near to keep

One vigil o'er thy bed; To gaze, low fondly! on thy face, To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head; And show that love, however vain, Nor thou nor I can feel again.

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Yet how much less it were to gain,

Though thou hast left me free, The loveliest things that still remain,

Thian thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die,
Through dark and dread eternity,

Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.

I will not ask where thou liest low,

Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved, and long must love,

Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
"T is nothing that I loved so well.

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Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,

And canst not alter pow.
The love where death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:
And what were worse, thou canst not see,
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

Oh! pardon that in crowds awhile,

I waste ove thought I owe to thee, And, self-condemn'd, appear lo smile,

Unfaithful to thay memory!

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