How quenchless the spirit and flame That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are on fire, TO. OH Lady! when I left the shore, For the hero they love, and the chief they I hardly thought to grieve once more, The distant shore which gave me birt admire! Their hero has rush'd to the field; His laurels are cover'd with shadeBut where is the spirit that never should yield, The loyalty never to fade? In a moment desertion and guile To quit another spot on earth: Yet here, amidst this barren isle, Where panting Nature droops the head Where only thou art seen to smile, I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albin's craggy shore, Divided by the dark blue main; A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, Perchance I view her cliff's again: The dastards that flourish'd and grew in But wheresoe'er I now may roam, his smile, Forsook and renounced him in woe; And the millions that swore they would perish to save, Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave! The savage all wild in his glen Is nobler and better than thou; Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men, At once from thy arms would I sever; Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears. Oh, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul! Oh, shame to thy children and thee! Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, How wretched thy portion shall be! Derision shall strike thee forlorn, A mockery that never shall die; The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, Shall burthen the winds of thy sky; And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world! 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. And since thy heart I cannot share, Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? The friend of Beauty in distress? The Turkish tyrants now enclose; And though I bid thee now farewell, Florence! whom I will love as well Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, 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. STANZAS. Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night, in a thunderstorm, 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, Is yon a cot I saw, though low? When lightning broke the gloomHow welcome were its shade!-ah, no! 'Tis but a Turkish tomb. Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, A shot is fired-by foe or friend? Another 'tis to tell The mountain-peasants to descend, And lead us where they dwell. Oh! who in such a night will dare And who that heard our shouts would rise Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! While wand'ring through each broken path, Not on the sea, not on the sea, Thy bark hath long been gone: Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, Now thou art safe; nay, long cre now And since I now remember theè Which mirth and music sped; 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 A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun Nor own for once thou thoughtst of one, Who ever thinks on thee. Though smile and sigh alike are vain, My spirit flies o'er mount and main, WRITTEN AT ATHENS. JANUARY 16, 1810. THE spell is broke, the charm is flown! Each lucid interval of thought Recals the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought, But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG Δεῦτε παῖδες τῶν ̔Ελλήνων Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. The following translation is as literal as the author could make it in verse; it is of the same measure as that of the original. SONS of the Greeks, arise! The glorious hour's gone forth, Sons of Greeks! let us go In arms against the foe, TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC Μπενω μες το περιβολι The song from which this is taken is a great I ENTER thy garden of roses, Each morning where Flora reposes, Yet trembles for what it has sung; Shines the soul of the young Haidee. But the loveliest garden grows hateful My heart from these horrors to save: As the chief who to combat advances By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once badst me cherish, For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidee! There Flora all wither'd reposes, Thy parting-glance, which fondly beams, The tear that from thine eyelid streams I ask no pledge to make me blest Whose thoughts are all thine own. Nor need I write to tell the tale By day or night, in weal or woe, TO THYRZA. WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot, Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid? Divided, yet beloved in vain; To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! That softly said, "We part in peace,” Had taught my bosom how to brook, With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. Who held, and holds thee in his heart? When silent Sorrow fears to sigh, Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow. And mourns o'er thine absence with me. Ours too the glance none saw beside; ON PARTING. THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left, The smile none else might understand; That Love each warmer wish forbore; The pledge we wore-I wear it still, But never bent beneath till now! I would not wish thee here again; To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me too early taught by thee! To bear, forgiving and forgiven: On earth thy love was such to me, It fain would form my hope in heaven! STANZAS. AWAY, away, ye notes of woe! Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence, for, oh! I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter daysBut lull the chords, for now, alas! I must not think, I may not gaze On what I am, on what I was. The voice that made those sounds more sweet Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; And now their softest notes repeat A dirge, an authem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony Is worse than discord to my heart! 'Tis silent all!-but on my ear The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear, A voice that now might well be still; Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake: Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake To listen, though the dream be flown. Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep, Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep, Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he, who through life's dreary way Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below, What future grief can touch me more? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; It never would have been, but thou Thou'rt nothing, all are nothing now. In vain my lyre would lightly breathe! On many a lone and lovely night It soothed to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye; And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, “Tis comfort still,” I faintly said, "That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" Like freedom to the time-worn slave, A boon 'tis idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! My Thyrza's pledge in better days, When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meetst my gaze! How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee Is silent-ah, were mine as still! Though cold as e'en the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill. Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token! Though painful, welcome to my breast! Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, Or break the heart to which thou'rt prest! Time tempers love, but not removes, More hallow'd when its hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves To that which cannot quit the dead? TO THYRZA. ONE struggle more, and I am free EUTHANASIA. WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing Wave gently o'er my dying bed! |