MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.
By those tresses unconfined,
Wooed by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge
By those wild eyes like the roe,
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,
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!
[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]
"What! not receive my foolish flower?"
See, too, Medwin's story of "one of the principal incidents in The Giaour." "I was in despair, and could hardly contrive to get a cinder, or a token-flower sent to express it."--Conversations of Lord Byron, 1824, p. 122.]
"Tho' I am parted, yet my mind
That's more than self still stays behind."
Poems, by Thomas Carew, ed. 1640, p. 36.]