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WRITTEN IN ALBUM.
AS o'er the cold sepulchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,
And when by thee that name is read,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.
September 14th, 1809.
OH Lady! when I left the shore,
Yet here, amidst this barren isle,
Where panting Nature droops the head,
I view my parting hour with dread.
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee:
All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,
And, oh! forgive the word-to love.
And since thy heart I cannot share,
Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less?
Ah! who would think that form had past
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath?
Where free Byzantium once arose;
The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
And though I bid thee now farewell,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF,
NOVEMBER 14, 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,
His wavering crown to follow woman.
Florence! whom I will love as well
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) Whilst thou art fair and I am young;
Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,
Though Fate forbids such things to be,
But would not lose thee for a world.
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,
Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play,
But show where rocks our path have crost,
Is yon a cot I saw, though low?
Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,
I hear a voice exclaim―
My way-worn countryman, who calls
On distant England's name.