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Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep
Fly, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,

One freeman more, America, to thee!




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.,

TO ***

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 of 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 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, Whom 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 halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,
As spot of thy nativity;

And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wond'rous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
"Twill sooth to be, where thou hast been.

September, 1809.




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.


And now upon the scene I look,

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That 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 hell)
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 curl'd!
I cannot lose a world for thee,

But would not lose thee for a world.


Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night, in a thunder-storm, when the guides had lost the road to Zita, 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 gilds 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 countrymen, 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.

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