Lord Byron (1788–1824)

MAID of Athens, ere we part,

Give, oh, give me back my heart!

Or, since that has left my breast,

Keep it now, and take the rest!

Hear my vow, before I go,

[Greek].

By those tresses unconfined,

Woo’d by each Ægean wind;

By those lids whose jetty fringe

Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge;

By those wild eyes like the rose,

[Greek].

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,

[Greek].

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!

[Greek].