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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
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!
More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought has still the power
To keep my bosom warm,
While wand'ring through each broken path,
O'er brake and craggy brow;
While elements exhaust their wrath.
Sweet Florence, where art thou?
Not on the sea, not on the sea,
Oh, may the storm that pours on me,
Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
And long ere now, with foaming shock,
Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry
Do thou amidst the fair white walls,
If Cadiz yet be free,
At times from out her latticed halls
Look o'er the dark blue sea;
Then think upon Calypso's isles,
And when the admiring circle mark
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark
Again thou❜lt smile, and blushing shun
Some coxcomb's raillery ;
Nor own for once thou though'st of one,
Who ever thinks on thee,
Though smile and sigh alike are vain,
My spirit flies o'er mount and main,
And mourns in search of thine.
WRITTEN AT ATHENS.
JANUARY 16, 1810.
THE spell is broke, the charm is flown!
Each lucid interval of thought
Recalls the woes of Nature's charter,
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS. (1)
MAY 9, 1810.
IF, in the month of dark December,
If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,
For me, degenerate modern wretch,
But since he cross'd the rapid tide,
"Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you! He lost his labour, I my jest ;
For he was drown'd, and I've the ague.
Ζώη με σάς ἀγαπῶν (2)
MAID of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!