WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone And when by thee that name is read, And think my heart is buried here. M T C September 14th, 1809. STANZAS Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night, in a thunder-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. Is yon a cot I saw, though low? When lightning broke the gloomHow welcome were its shade!-ah, no! "T is but a Turkish tomb. Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, I hear a voice exclaim My way-worn countryman, who calls A shot is fired-by foe or friend? The mountain-peasants to descend, Oh! who in such a night will dare 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! Yet here one thought has still the power While wandering through each broken path, Not on the sea, not on the sea, Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, When last I press'd thy lip; And long ere now, with foaming shock, Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now And since I now remember thee Do thou amidst the fair white walls, At times from out her latticed halls Then think upon Calypso's isles, And when 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. Though smile and sigh alike are vain, TO *** OH Lady! when I left the shore, 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 And who so cold as look on thee, Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? Where free Byzantium once arose; The Turkish tyrants now enclose; And though I bid thee now farewell, September, 1809. WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. THE spell is broke, the charm is flown! Delirium is our best deceiver. groan; |