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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 Egean 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.

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Let your country see you rising,
And all her chains are broke.
Brave shades of chiefs and sages,
Behold the coming strife!
Hellénes of past ages,

Oh, start again to life!

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven-hill'd city seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we 're free.
Sons of Greeks, etc.

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Lethargic dost thou lie ?

Awake and join thy numbers
With Athens, old ally!
Leonidas recalling,

That chief of ancient song,

Who saved ye once from falling,
The terrible! the strong!
Who made that bold diversion
In old Thermopyla,
And warring with the Persian
To keep his country free;
With his three hundred waging
The battle, long he stood,
And like a lion raging,
Expired in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, etc.

'First published, 1812.]

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TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC

SONG

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 ungrateful,

That herb is more fragrant than flowers.

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Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see;
The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?

By day or night, in weal or woe,

That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee. March, 1811. [First published, 1812.]

EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKET

LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER

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.]

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Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets - without letters!
Adieu, ye fools - who ape your betters! 10
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen!
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn,
sirs,

Adieu his Excellency's dancers!
Adieu to Peter whom no fault 's in,
But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!
Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!
Adieu, the supercilious air

Of all that strut 'en militaire !'
I go- but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad but in a different way.

Farewell to these, but not adieu, Triumphant sons of truest blue! While either Adriatic shore,

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And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and women's winners. 30
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme because 't is 'gratis.'

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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
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.

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EPISTLE TO A FRIEND

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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, 10 Whose every thought — but let them passThou 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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But let this pass - I'll whine no more, Nor seek again an eastern shore; The world befits a busy brain, I'll hie me to its haunts again. But if, in some succeeding year, When Britain's May is in the sere,' Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes

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