WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, For me, degenerate modern wretch, But since he cross'd the rapid tide, To woo, and- Lord knows what beside, And swam for Love, as I for Glory; "T were 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. May 9, 1810. [First published, 1812.] 'MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART' Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ. [Supposed to be Theresa Macri, who afterwards married Mr. Black, an Englishman.] MAID of Athens, ere we part, By those tresses unconfined, By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell Maid of Athens! I am gone: Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ. ATHENS, 1810. [First published, 1812.] FRAGMENT FROM THE MONK OF ATHOS' [First published in Noel's Life of Lord Byron, 1890. The manuscript was given to the author of the Life by S. McCalmont Hill, who inherited it from his great-grandfather, Robert Dallas. The date and occasion of the poem are unknown.] BESIDE the confines of the Egean main, Where northward Macedonia bounds the flood, And views opposed the Asiatic plain, Where once the pride of lofty Ilion stood, Like the great Father of the giant brood, With lowering port majestic Athos stands, Crown'd with the verdure of eternal wood, As yet unspoil'd by sacrilegious hands, And throws his mighty shade o'er seas and distant lands. And deep embosom'd in his shady groves Full many a convent rears its glittering spire, Mid scenes where Heavenly Contemplation loves To kindle in her soul her hallow'd fire, Where air and sea with rocks and woods conspire To breathe a sweet religious calm around, Weaning the thoughts from every low desire, And the wild waves that break with murmuring sound Along the rocky shore proclaim it holy ground. Sequester'd shades where Piety has given A quiet refuge from each earthly care, Whence the rapt spirit may ascend to Heaven! Μπένω μεσ ̓ τὸ περιβόλι, I ENTER thy garden of roses, Receive this fond truth from my tongue, Which utters its song to adore thee, Yet trembles for what it has sung; As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidée. 10 But the loveliest garden grows hateful When Love has abandon'd the bowers; Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, That herb is more fragrant than flowers. As the chief who to combat advances By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidée ! There Flora all wither'd reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. [First published, 1812.] 31 But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, His name would bring more credit than his verse. 1810. [First published, 1830.] ON PARTING THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, I ask no pledge to make me blest Nor need I write to tell the tale By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee. March, 1811. [First published, 1812.] EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKET LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER STRANGER! behold, interr'd together, FAREWELL TO MALTA ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette! (How surely he who mounts you swears!) 'gratis.' And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser, And now, O Malta! since thou 'st got us, May 26, 1811. [First published, 1816.] 40 51 EPISTLE TO A FRIEND 'OH! banish care'- such ever be "T were long to tell, and vain to hear, The tale of one who scorns a tear; And there is little in that tale Which better bosoms would bewail; But mine has suffer'd more than well 'T would suit philosophy to tell. I've seen my bride another's bride, Have seen her seated by his side, Have seen the infant, which she bore, Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, When she and I in youth have smiled, As fond and faultless as her child; Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, Ask if I felt no secret pain; And I have acted well my part, And made my cheek belie my heart, Return'd the freezing glance she gave, Yet felt the while that woman's slave; Have kiss'd, as if without design, The babe which ought to have been mine, And show'd, alas! in each caress Time had not made me love the less. -- 10 20 30 40 But let this pass - I'll whine no more, Nor seek again an eastern shore; The world befits a busy brain, I'll hie me to its haunts again. But if, in some succeeding year, When Britain's 'May is in the sere,' Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes |