Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,—
I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair,
And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain my soul would dare
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shalt thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love.

(WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA.)

(Set to Music by J. NATHAN.)

S o'er the cold sepulchral stone

A

Some name arrests the passer-by; Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,

May mine attract thy pensive eye!

And when by thee that name is read,
Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,

And think my heart is buried here.

September 14, 1809.

HROUGH 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 Antonies.

Though Fate forbids such things to be,
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd!
I cannot lose a world for thee,

But would not lose thee for a world.

Nov. 14, 1809.

EAR object of defeated care!

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

Thine image and my tears are left.

'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.

ATHENS, January, 1811.