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WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING
FROM SESTOS TO ABYDOS
IF, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont !

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he cross'd the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,

To woo,

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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,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each gean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist;

By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!

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!

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Μπένω μεσ ̓ τὸ περιβόλι,
Ωραιοτάτη Χαηδή, κ. τ. λ.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,
Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

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.

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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.

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As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish

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.]

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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
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see;
The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?

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,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only leather and prunella?'
For character- he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to Black-it.'
MALTA, May 16, 1811. [First published,
1832.]

FAREWELL TO MALTA

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!
Adieu, ye mansions where I've ventured!
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!

(How surely he who mounts you swears!)

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'gratis.'

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line or two- were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, O Malta! since thou 'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse!
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods- I've got a fever!

May 26, 1811. [First published, 1816.]

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EPISTLE TO A FRIEND

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'OH! banish care'- such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and banish care.'
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought - but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak speak of anything but love.

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"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.

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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

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