The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 3 | Page 7

a cot I saw, though low?
When lightning broke the gloom--

How welcome were its shade!--ah, no!
'Tis but a Turkish tomb.
4.
Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,
I hear a voice exclaim--
My

way-worn countryman, who calls
On distant England's name.
5.
A shot is fired--by foe or friend?
Another--'tis to tell
The
mountain-peasants to descend,
And lead us where they dwell.
6.
Oh! who in such a night will dare
To tempt the wilderness?
And
who 'mid thunder-peals can hear
Our signal of distress?
7.
And who that heard our shouts would rise
To try the dubious road?

Nor rather deem from nightly cries
That outlaws were abroad.
8.
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.
9.
While wandering through each broken path,
O'er brake and craggy
brow;
While elements exhaust their wrath,
Sweet Florence, where
art thou?
10.
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!
11.
Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
When last I pressed thy lip;
And

long ere now, with foaming shock,
Impelled thy gallant ship.
12.
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.
13.
And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
As in
those hours of revelry
Which Mirth and Music sped;
14.
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;
15.
Then think upon Calypso's isles,
Endeared by days gone by;
To
others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.
16.
And when the admiring circle mark
The paleness of thy face,
A
half-formed tear, a transient spark
Of melancholy grace,
17.
Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun
Some coxcomb's raillery;

Nor own for once thou thought'st on one,
Who ever thinks on thee.
18.
Though smile and sigh alike are vain,
When severed hearts repine,

My spirit flies o'er Mount and Main,
And mourns in search of
_thine_.

_October_ 11, 1809.
[MS. M. First published, _Childe
Harold_, 1812 (4to).]
STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF.[i]
1.
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.
2.
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_.
3.
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_;
4.
Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,
When worlds were staked
for Ladies' eyes:
Had bards as many realms as rhymes,[j]
Thy
charms might raise new Antonies.[k]
5.
Though Fate forbids such things to be,[l]
Yet, by thine eyes and
ringlets curled!
I cannot _lose_ a _world_ for thee,
But would not
lose _thee_ for a _World_.[6]

_November_ 14, 1809.

[MS. M. First published, _Childe
Harold_, 1812 (4to).]
THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN![m]
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.
[MS. M. First published, _Childe Harold_, 1812 (4to).]
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOS TO
ABYDOS.[7]
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!
2.
If, when the wintry tempest roared,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth,

And thus of old thy current poured,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!
3.
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.
4.
But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,


To woo,--and--Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I
for Glory;
5.
'Twere 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 drowned,
and I've the ague.[8]