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 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:

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 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 'It smile, and blushing shun Some coxcomb's raillery;

Nor own for once thou thought'st of 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.

TO ***.

Ou 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,

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On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bathurst) 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 straits, as just stated, entering a 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 nel her 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 story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.


s Zoë mou, sas agapo, or Ζώη μου, σας ἀγαπῶ, a Romaic ex

pression of tenderness: if I translate it I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I supposed 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

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Leonidas recalling,

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

The terrible, the strong!

Who made that bold diversion

In old Thermopyle, 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, etc.


Μπαίνω μὲς τὸ περιβόλι,
Ωραιότατη Χαηδή, etc.

The song from which 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. pot in the winter of 1810-11.

I have heard it frequently at our
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 flowers.
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 my 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 cherish,
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.


THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left, Shall never part from mine,

Till happier hours restore the gift Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest,
In gazing when alone;

Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak?

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.


WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,

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

Divided, yet beloved in vain; The past, the future fled 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 not, since death for thee
Prepared a light and pangless dart,
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?
Or sadly mark'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 flow'd as fast-as now they flow.
Shall they not flow, 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 whisper'd 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;
song celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine;


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!


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 days→
But 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 hush'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat

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

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 dream—
A 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 heaven is veil'd in wrath,
Will long lament the vanish'd ray

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

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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?


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!

No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep or wish the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,

To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

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