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3.

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow faiu would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.

Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;

Though pleasure fires the madd'ning soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still!

4.

On many a lone and lovely night
It soothed to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deemed the heav'nly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye;
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Egean wave,
« Now Thyrza gazes on that moon—»
Alas! it gleamed upon her grave.

5.

When stretched 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!

6.

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,

When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet'st 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.

7.

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 hallowed when its hope is fled :
Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead?

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

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 14th, 1809

STANZAS

Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night, 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,
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! "Tis but a Turkish tomb.

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls
I hear a voice exclaim-

My way-worn countryman, who calls
On distant England's name.

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
To tempt the wilderness?

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!

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,
Thy bark hath long been gone :
may the storm that pours
Bow down my head alone!

Oh!

on me,

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
When last I press'd thy lip;

And long ere now, with foaming shock,
Impelled thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now

Hast trod the shore of Spain; 'Twere hard if ought so fair as thou Should linger on the main.

And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry
Which mirth and music sped;

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,
Endeared by days gone by;
To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.

And when the admiring circle mark
The paleness of thy face,

A half formed 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,
When severed hearts repine,
My spirit flies o'er mount and main,
And mourns in search of thine.

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