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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 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 pass'd

Through Danger's most destructive path,

Had brav’d the death-wing’d tempest's blast,

And ’scap'd 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 wond'rous scene;
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been.

September, 1809.



Written in passing the Ambracian Gulple

November 14th, 1809.


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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 Anthonies.


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!



Composed October 11th 1809, during the night ; in a thun

der-storm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called 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.

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