By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μου, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

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, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

ATHENS, 1810. [First published, 1812.]

FRAGMENT FROM THE 'MONK OF ATHOS'

[First published in Noel's Life of Lord Byron, 1890. The manuscript was given to the author of the Life by S. McCalmont Hill, who inherited it from his great-grandfather, Robert Dallas. The date and occasion of the poem are unknown.]

BESIDE the confines of the Ægean main, Where northward Macedonia bounds the flood,

And views opposed the Asiatic plain, Where once the pride of lofty Ilion stood, Like the great Father of the giant brood, With lowering port majestic Athos stands, Crown'd with the verdure of eternal wood, As yet unspoil'd by sacrilegious hands, And throws his mighty shade o'er seas and distant lands.

And deep embosom'd in his shady groves Full many a convent rears its glittering spire,

Mid scenes where Heavenly Contemplation loves

To kindle in her soul her hallow'd fire, Where air and sea with rocks and woods

conspire

To breathe a sweet religious calm around, Weaning the thoughts from every low desire,

And the wild waves that break with murmuring sound

Along the rocky shore proclaim it holy ground.

Sequester'd shades where Piety has given A quiet refuge from each earthly care, Whence the rapt spirit may ascend to Heaven!

Μπένω μεσ ̓ τὸ περιβόλι,
Ωραιοτάτη Χαηδή, κ. τ. λ.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,
Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung; As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidée.

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But the loveliest garden grows hateful When Love has abandon'd the bowers; Bring me hemlock since mine is ungrate

ful,

That herb is more fragrant than flowers.

STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only leather and prunella?'
For character - he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to Black-it.'
MALTA, May 16, 1811. [First published,
1832.]

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line or two were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, O Malta! since thou 'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse!
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods I've got a fever!
May 26, 1811. [First published, 1816.]

40

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING
THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND
TO BANISH CARE'

'OH! banish care'- such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and 'banish care.'
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought - but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak - speak of anything but love.

"T were long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail;
But mine has suffer'd more than well
"T would suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,
Have seen her seated by his side,
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie
my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave; -
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less.

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20

30

40

When Britain's May is in the sere,'
Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes