STANZAS TO A LADY !, ON LEAVING

ENGLAND.

And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu ;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 2

1809.

'Tis done — and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; And whistling o'er the bending mast, Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; And I must from this land be gone, Because I cannot love but one. But could I be what I have been, And could I see what I have seen Could I repose upon the breast Which once my warmest wishes blest I should not seek another zone Because I cannot love but one. 'Tis long since I beheld that eye Which gave me bliss or misery; And I have striven, but in vain, Never to think of it again : For though I fly from Albion, I still can only love but one. As some lone bird, without a mate, My weary heart is desolate; I look around, and cannot trace One friendly smile or welcome face, And ev'n in crowds am still alone, Because I cannot love but one. And I will cross the whitening foam, And I will seek a foreign home; Till I forget a false fair face, I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, But ever love, and love but one. The poorest, veriest wretch on earth Still finds some hospitable hearth, Where friendship's or love's softer glow May smile in joy or soothe in woe; But friend or leman I have none, Because I cannot love but one. I go — but wheresoe'er I flee, There's not an eye will weep for me; There's not a kind congenial heart, Where I can claim the meanest part; Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, Wilt sigh, although I love but one. To think of every early scene, Of what we are, and what we've been, Would whelm some softer hearts with woe But mine, alas ! has stood the blow; Yet still beats on as it begun, And never truly loves but one. And who that dear loved one may be Is not for vulgar eyes to see, And why that early love was crost, Thou know'st the best, I feel the most; But few that dwell beneath the sun Have loved so long, and loved but one. I've tried another's fetters too, With charms Perchance as fair to view;

LINES TO MR. HODGSON. WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. Huzza ! Hodgson, we are going,

Our embargo 's off at last ; Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvass o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming,

Hark! the farewell gun is fired ; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired.

Here's a rascal

Come to task all,
Prying from the custom-house ;

Trunks unpacking

Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Now our boatmen quit their mooring,

And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,

We're impatient, — push from shore. “ Have a care ! that case holds liquor —

Stop the boat - I'm sick -oh Lord!" “ Sick, ma'am, damme, you ll be sicker, Ere you've been an hour on board."

Thus are screaming

Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks ;

Here entangling,

All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax. — Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. Now we've reach'd her, lo ! the captain,

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in,

Some to grumble, some to spew. “ Hey day ! call you that a cabin ?

Why 't is hardly three feet square ; Not enough to stow Queen Mab in Who the deuce can harbour there?"

“ Who, sir ? plenty

Nobles twenty
Did at once my vessel fill." -

“ Did they? Jesus,

How you squeeze us !
Would to God they did so still :
Then I'd scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.”

[In the original," To Mrs. Musters.") ? [Thus corrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr. Llobhouse's Miscellany; the two last lines being originally

• Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,

I love but thee, I love but one.")

Fletcher ! Murray! Bobi! where are you?

Stretch'd along the deck like logs. Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you !

Here's a rope's cnd for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,

As the hatchway down be rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth and damns our souls.

“ Here's a stanza

On Bragauza
Help!"-"A couplet ? ".

No, a cup
Of warm water

" What's the matter ?"
“ Zounds ! my liver's coming up ;
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.”
Now at length we're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back ! Breczes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on - as I do now.

Laugh at all things,

Great and small things, Sick or well, at sea or shore ;

While we 're quaffing,

Let's have laughing
Who the devil cares for more ? -
Suine good wine ! and who would lack ii,
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet?!

Falmouth Roads, June 30. 1909.

[First published, 1830.)

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 cragsy shore,

Divided by the dark blue main ; A few, brief, rolling, seasons o'er,

Perchance I view her cliffs again : But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

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, Whoin but to see is to admire,

And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er

With such a word can more offend ; And since thy heart I cannot share,

Believe me, what I am, thy friend. And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ?
Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress ?
Ah! who would think that form had past

Through Danger's most destructive path, Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,

And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? Lady ! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose, And Stamboul's Oriental balls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 'Though mightiest in the lists of fame,

That glorious city still shall be ;
On me 't will hold a dearer claim,

As spot of thy nativity :
And though I bid thee now farewell,

When I behold that wondrous scene, Since where thou art I may not dwell, 'T will soothe to be, where thou hast been.

September, 1809.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA.

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 thce that name is read,

Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.

September 14. 1809.

STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM.

TO FLORENCE.S Oh Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more,

To quit another spot on earth :

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,

Where Pindus' mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast

The vengeance of the skies.

"(Lord Byron's three servants.) ? (in the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, Lord Byron says:-" I leave England without regret - I shall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict sentenced to transportation ; but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab; and thus ends my first chapter.")

3 [These lines were written at Malta. The lady to whom they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostrophises in the stanzas on the thunderstorm of Zitza and in Childe Harold, is thus mentioned in a letter to his mother:-" This letter is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Sunith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked; and her life has been from its commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance they would appear improbable.

She was born at Constantinople, where her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambassador; married unhappily, yet has never been impeached in point of character; excited the vengeance of Buonaparte, by taking a part in some conspi. racy; several times risked her life ; and is not yet five and twenty. She is here on her way to England to join her husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here I have had scarcely any other coirpanion. I have found her very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. Buonaparte is even now so incensed against her, that her life would be in danger if she were taken prisoner a second time."']

4 (This thunderstorm occurred during the night of the Ilth October, 1509, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of inountains formerly called

To others give a thousand smiles,

To me a single sigh."
And when the admiring circle mark

The paleness of thy face,
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark

Of melancholy grace,
Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun

Some coxcomb's raillery ;
Nor own for once thou thought'st on one,

Who ever thinks on thee.
Though smile and sigh alike are vain,

When sever'd hearts repine,
My spirit flics o'er mount and main,

And mourns in search of thine.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACLAY GULF.

THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,

Full beams the moon on Actium's coast; And on these waves, for Egypt's queen,

The ancient world was won and lost.

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 gloom -
How 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 - 't is 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 :
Oh, may the storm that pours on me,

Bow down my head alone !
Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,

When last I press'd thy lip;
And long ere now, with foaming shock,

Impellid thy gallant ship.
Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now

Hast trod the ore of Spain;
'T were hard if aught 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, amid 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,

Endear'd by days gone by;

And now upon the scene I look,

The azure grave of many a Roman ; Where stern Ambition once forsook

His wavering crown to follow woman. Florence ! whom I will love as well

As ever yet was said or sung, (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from

Whilst thou art fair and I am young; Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times,

When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : Had bards as many realms as rhymes,

Thy charms might raise new Antonies.
Though Fate forbids such things to be

Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curld !
I cannot lose a world for thee,
But would not lose thee for a world.

November 14. 1809.

THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS

FLOWN!
WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16. 1810.
The spell is broke, the charm is flown !

Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan ;

Delirium is our best deceiver.
Each lucid interval of thought

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought,

But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.

Pindus, in Albania. Mr. Hobhouse, who liad rode on before the rest of the party, and arrived at Zitza just as the evening set in, describes the thunder as “ roaring without intermission, the echoes of one peal not ceasing to roll in the mountains, before another tremendous crash burst over our heads; whilst the plains and the distant hills appeared in a perpetual blaze." *** The tempest," he says, " was altogether territic, and worthy of the Grecian Jove. My Friend, with the priest and the servants, did not enter our hut till three

in the morning. I now learnt from him that they had lost their way, and that, after wandering up and down in total ig. norance of their position, they had stopped at last near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent, which they saw by the Aashes of lightning. They had been thus exposed for nine hours. It was long before we ceased to talk of the thunderstorm in the plain of Zitza."]

1 [" These stanzas," says Mr. Moore," have a music in them, which, independently of all meaning, is enchanting.") WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS

TO ABYDOS. 1
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 !

LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK

AT ORCHOMENUS. IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN :“ Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart To trace the birth and nursery of art : Noble his object, glorious is his aim; He comes to Athens, and he writes his namc. BENEATH WHICHI LORD BYRON INSERTED TIE FOLLOWING: The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own; But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, His name would bring more credit than his versc.

1810.

If, when the wintry tempest roard,

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, - 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.

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ. Maid of Athens , ere we part, Give, oh, give back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast, Kcep it now, and take the rest ! Hear my vow before I go, Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ. 5 By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each Ægean wind ; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; By those wild eyes like the roe, Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ,

! On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Lkenhead of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam from the European shore to the Asiatic- by the by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. The whole distance from the place whence we started to our landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those ou board the frigate at upwards of four English míles ; though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across,' and it may, in some measure, be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and fire, and by tho other in an hour and ten, minutes. The water was extremely cold, from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt ; but, having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate an. chored below the castles, when we swam the straits, as just stated; entering a considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and Oliver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the Salsctle's crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance ; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.

(“ My companion," says Mr. Hobhouse, “had before made a more perilous, but less celebrated passage ; for I recollect that, when we were in Portugal, he swam from Old Lisbon to Belem Castle, and having to contend with a tide and counter current, the wind blowing freshly, was but little less than two hours in crossing."]

3 [At Orchomenus, where stood the Temple of the Gracer, I was tempted to exclaim, " Whither have the Graces tied ? Little did I expect to find them here; yet here comes one of them with golden cups and coffee, and another with a book. The book is a register of names, some of which are far sounded by the voice of fame. Among them is Lord Byron's, connected with some lines which I here send you. H. W. WILLIAMS.)

* (We copy the following interesting account of the Maid of Athens and her family from the late eminent utist, Mr. Hugh Williams of Edinburgh's, “ Travels in Italy, Greece," &c. --" Our cervant, who had gone before to procure accommodation, met us at the gate, and conducted us to Theodore

Macri, the Consulina's, where we at present live. This lady is the widow of the consul, and has three lovely daughters; the eldest celebrated for her beauty, and said to be the

Maid of Athens' of Lord Byron. 'Their apartment is immediately opposite to ours, and, if you could see them, as we do now, through the gently waving aromatic plants before our window, you would leave your heart in Athens. Theresa, the Maid of Athens, Catinco, and Mariana, are of middle stature. On the crown of the head of cach is a red Albanian skull-cap, with a blue tassel spread out and fastened down like a star. Near the edge or bottom of the skull-cap is a handkerchief of various colours bound round their temples. The youngest wears her hair loose, falling on her shoulders, -- the hair behind descending down the back nearly to the waist, and, as usual, mixed with silk. The two eldest gene. rally have their hair bound, and fastened under the handkerchief. Their upper robe is a pelisse edged with sur, hanging loose down to the ankles; below is a handkerchief of muslin covering the bosom, and terminating at the waist, which is short ; under that, a gown of striped silk or muslin, with a gore round the swell of the loins, falling in front in graceful negligence; - white stockings and yellow slippers complete their attire. The two eldest have black, or dark, hair and eyes; their visage oral, and complexion somewhat pale, with teeth of dazzling whiteness. Their cheeks are rounded, and noses straight, rather inclined to aquiline. The youngest, Mariana, is very fair, her face not so finely rounded, but has a gayer expression than her sisters', whose countenances, except when the conversation has something of mirth in it, may be said to be rather pensive. Their persong are elegant, and their manners pleasing and ladylike, such as would be fascinating in any country. They possess very considerable powers of conversation, and their ininds seem to be more instructed than those of the Greek women in general. With such attractions, it would, indeed, be remarkable, if they did not meet with great attentions from the travellers who occasionally are resident in Athens. They sit in the eastern style, a little reclined, with their limbs gathered under them on the divan, and without shoes. Their employments are the needle, tambouring, and reading." There is a beautiful engraving of the Maid of Athens in Finden's Illustrations of Byron, No. I.)

5 Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it, I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I supposed they could not; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means. " My life, I love you!

which counds very prettily in all languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this dar as, Jurenai tells us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic expressions were all Hellcnised.

Nn