And yet it were a greater grief

To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear

To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;

The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:

Thy day without a cloud hath past,
And thou wert lovely to the last;
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;

To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!

The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread eternity,
Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears,
Than aught, except its living years.

The semblance of thy gentle shade: And now that sad and silent hour

Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour The plaint she dare not speak before.

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile,
I waste one thought I owe to thee,
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy memory!
Nor deem that memory less dear,
That then I seem not to repine;
I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine.

If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,

It is not drain'd to banish care; The cup must hold a deadlier draught, That brings a Lethe for despair.

And could oblivion set my soul

From all her troubled visions free.
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of thee.

For wert thou vanish'd from my mind,
Where could my vacant bosom turn?
And who would then remain behind

To honour thine abandon'd urn?
No, no-it is my sorrow's pride
That last dear duty to fulfil;
Though all the world forget beside,
'Tis meet that I remember still.

For well I know, that such had been
Thy gentle care for him, who now
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,
Where none regarded him, but thou:
And, oh! I feel in that was given

A blessing never meant for me;

Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven,

For earthly love to merit thee.

March 14th, 1812.

TO A LADY.

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:

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 't will 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,

'T will soothe to be, where thou hast been.

September, 1809.

STANZAS

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