How many memories of what radiant hours At sight of thee and thine at once awake! How many scenes of what departed bliss! How many thoughts of what entombed hopes! How many visions of a maiden that is No more--no more upon thy verdant slopes! No more! alas, that magical sad sound Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more— Thy memory no more! Accursed ground Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante! HOU wouldst be loved?-then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love a simple duty. And thus the words were spoken, And thus the plighted vow; And though my faith be broken, And though my heart be broken, Behold the golden token That proves me happy now! Would God I could awaken! For I dream I know not how, And my soul is sorely shaken |