By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each AEgean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
_Zoee mou, sas agapo_.
* * * * *
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go.
_Zoee mou, sas agapo._
(My life, I love you!)
By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each AEgean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
_Zoee mou, sas agapo_.
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love's alternate joy and woe,
_Zoee mou, sas agapo_.
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!
_Zoee mou, sas agapo._
Rapidly as his pen flies over the paper, the torrent of throbbing
thought flows faster still. Far on into the night, when ghostly noises
echo through the sleeping palace, "that ever-gushing and perennial fount
of natural waters," as Scott has described the genius of Byron, pours
forth in reckless profusion. Until at last, outspent with energy, he
draws a deep breath of exhaustion, and realizes that he is weariness
itself. The moon has sunk in Arno: the stars are half-way across the
sky: a cold glimmer of dawn is palpitating along the East, as Byron--
"Again to that accustom'd couch must creep
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep."
After day's fitful fever he sleeps well: and rest, a few short hours of
it, is due to that perturbed spirit, which now,
... O'erlabour'd with his being's strife,
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life ...
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.
(_Lara._)
[Illustration]
_Printed by Percy Lund, Humphries & Co., Ltd._,
_Bradford and London._