TO ZANTEFair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost takeHow many memories of what radiant hoursAt 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 isNo more—no more upon thy verdant slopes!Nomore!alas, that magical sad soundTransfomring all! Thy charms shall pleaseno more—Thy memoryno more!Accursed groundHenceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!“Isoa d’oro! Fior di Levante!”1837.
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost takeHow many memories of what radiant hoursAt 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 isNo more—no more upon thy verdant slopes!Nomore!alas, that magical sad soundTransfomring all! Thy charms shall pleaseno more—Thy memoryno more!Accursed groundHenceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!“Isoa d’oro! Fior di Levante!”
1837.