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.
 
A shot is fired——by foe or friend?
   Another——'tis to tell
The mountain—peasants to descend,
   And lead us where they dwell.
 
Oh! who in such a night will dare
   To tempt the wilderness?
And who 'mid thunder—peals can hear
   Our signal of distress?
 
And who that heard our shouts would rise
   To try the dubious road?
Nor rather deem from nightly cries
   That outlaws were abroad.
 
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
   More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought has still the power
   To keep my bosom warm.
 
While wandering through each broken path,
   O’er brake and craggy brow;
While elements exhaust their wrath,
   Sweet Florence, where art thou?
 
Not on the sea, not on the sea——
   Thy bark hath long been gone:
Oh, may the storm that pours on me,
   Bow down my head alone!
 
Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
   When last I pressed thy lip;
And long ere now, with foaming shock,
   Impelled thy gallant ship.
 
Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
   Hast trod the shore of Spain;
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou
   Should linger on the main.
 
And since I now remember thee
   In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry
   Which Mirth and Music sped;
 
Do thou, amid the fair white walls,
   If Cadiz yet be free,
At times from out her latticed halls
   Look o’er the dark blue sea;
 
Then think upon Calypso’s isles,
   Endeared by days gone by;
To others give a thousand smiles,
   To me a single sigh.
 
And when the admiring circle mark
   The paleness of thy face,
A half—formed tear, a transient spark
   Of melancholy grace,
 
Again thou’lt smile, and blushing shun
   Some coxcomb’s raillery;
Nor own for once thou thought’st on one,
   Who ever thinks on thee.
 
Though smile and sigh alike are vain,
   When severed hearts repine
My spirit flies o’er Mount and Main
   And mourns in search of thine.

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