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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.
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;
Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes :
Had bards as many realms as rhymes,
Thy charms might raise new Anthonies.
Though Fate forbids such things to be,
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curled !
I cannot lose a world for thee,
But would not lose thee for a world.
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 torrents 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,
l'hear a voice exclaim
My way-worn countryman, who calls
On distant England's name.