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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 ?
The friend of Beauty in distress?
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;
As spot of thy nativity:
When I behold that wond'rous scene;
Written in passing the Ambracian Gulple
November 14th, 1809.
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,
The vengeance of the skies.
Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play,
Or gild the torrent's spray.