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Literary Gazette, 7th December, 1822, Pages 775–776 (cont.)
But I—I fled as culprits fly,
By night, watched only by one eye
Whose look was all the world to me,
And it met mine so tenderly,
I thought not of the days to come,
I thought not of my own sweet home,
Nor of mine aged father's sorrow,—
Wild love takes no thought for to-morrow.
I left my home, and I was left
A stranger in his land, bereft
Of even hope; there was not one
Familiar face to look upon.—
Their speech was strange. This penalty
Was meet; but surely not from thee,
False love—'twas not for thee to break
The heart but sullied for thy sake!—
I could have wished once more to see
Thy green hills, loveliest Italy!
I could have wished yet to have hung
Upon the music of thy tongue;
I could have wished thy flowers to bloom—
Thy cypress planted by my tomb!
This wish is vain, my grave must be
Far distant from my own country!
I must rest here—Oh lay me then
By the white church in yonder glen;
Amid the darkening elms, it seems,
Thus silvered over by the beams
Of the pale moon, a very shrine
For wounded hearts—it shall be mine!
There is one corner, green and lone,
A dark yew over it has thrown
Long, night-like boughs; 'tis thickly set
With primrose and with violet.
Their bloom's now past; but in the spring
They will be sweet and glistening.
There is a bird, too, of your clime,
That sings there in the winter time;
My funeral hymn his song will be,
