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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,

Impell’d thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now

Hast trod the shore of Spain; 'Twere 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 ;
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'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 sever'd hearts repine,
My spirit flies o'er mount and main,

And mourns in search of thine.

“ MAID OF ATHENS."

Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.

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, σας αγαπώ.
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.
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, σας αγαπώ.

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, σας αγαπώ.

TO INEZ.

NAY, smile not at my sullen brow;

Alas! I cannot smile again : Yet Heaven avert that ever thou

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.

And dost thou ask, what secret woe

I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know

A pang ev’n thou must fail to soothe ?

It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bids me loathe my present state,

And fly from all I prized the most :

It is that weariness which springs

From all I meet, or hear, or see : To me no pleasure beauty brings ;

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; That will not look beyond the tomb,

But cannot hope for rest before.

What Exile from himself can flee?

To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be,

The blight of life—the demon thought.

Yet others wrapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,

And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,

With many a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know,

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

What is that worst? Nay do not ask

In pity from the search forbear; Smile on-nor venture to unmask

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.

“ONE STRUGGLE MORE.”

“One struggle more,” and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before : Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ;

Man was not form'd to live alone : I'll be that light, unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here ;

Thou’rt nothing, -all are nothing now.

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe !

The smile that sorrow fain 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 maddening soul,

The heart—the heart is lonely still !

On many a lone and lovely night

It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,

When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, “ Now Thyrza gazes on that moon

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave !

When stretch'd 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 !

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