Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No," And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.

Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?

So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.