The night-storm roars about Pindus' heights,
  The winds are deeply angry,
And rivers of rain flow down
  From the dark army of clouds.

No guide can be perceived any longer,
  The flash of lightning barely shows us
The rocky cliffs that hide the pathway,
  [Barely shows us] the foaming of the river of rain.

Now I see the roof of a hut,
  If the weak vestige of light
Does not deceive me, but woe! woe!
  It is only a Turkish grave.

A sound has now carved itself a path
  Through the howling. --
My lost compatriot is calling:
  Old England! through the night.

A shot rings out – another -- are there
  Brigands creeping about here? oh no!
This sign calls the inhabitants of the mountain
  To come to our aid.

Oh, even if this weak shot, too,
  Penetrated the roaring of the thunder,
Who would willingly go out
  In such a pouring rain?

These paths are unsafe as well,
  Whoever heard our calls
In the dark night along the rocky strand,
  Would easily think of robbery.

The clouds burst, everything around
  Harbours fearsome night!
Only one thought, blissfully gentle,
  Makes me happy even here.

Florentia! whither do you tarry while
  I walk through rocks and thorns;
And all the elements, fermenting,
  Pour down their wrath?

You are not upon the sea -- your ship
  Must long be in harbour already.
Oh! as long as the storms sleep for you,
  May the worst threaten me.

Yes, the sirocco came a-flying
  After the recompense of your kiss;
Quickly upon the white foaming wave
  Your proud ship sailed off.

You landed in Spain,
  Oh benevolent one, beautiful and good;
It would be too cruel if your ship
  Were still driven by surging waves upon the waters.

As I yet ever think of you 
  Even in storm, danger, and night,
As in the bright glitter of the festival
  Where loud rejoicing laughs;

Thus must you think of me in
  The white walls of Cadiz,
And must with mourning often gaze
  Seaward from out of its halls;

May Calypsa's [sic] island ever be
  Precious to you in your heart;
With others you may smile, jest --
  Your sighs must be for me.

And if the circle of your admirers try 
  To discover the reason for the veil of melancholy 
That, quietly gliding over your features,
  Dulls your eyes,

Then you shall smile, to evade
  The badinage of the fops;
Never to reveal of whom you think,
  Even if he also thinks of you eternally.

Pain and tears are for naught
  In hearts that are separated;
Yet my longing soars over land and sea
  To the heart that knows me.