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Maid of Athens! I am gone:
TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG. “ Μπενω μες Ἴσ περιβολι
"' paso7a7n Xandn," &c.
The song from which this is taken is a great favourite with the young girls of Athens of all classes. Their manner of singing it is by verses in rotation, the whole number present joining in the chorus. I have heard it frequently at our 66 Xopo" in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.
I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Which utters its song to adore thee,
Yet trembles for what it has sung;
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
But the loveliest garden grows hateful
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,
But when drunk to escape from thy malice,
My heart from these horrors to save:
As the chief who to combat advances
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haideé! There Flora all wither'd reposes,
And mourns o'er thine absence with me,
WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.
DEAR object of defeated care!
Though now of Love and thee bereft,
To reconcile me with despair
Thine image and my tears are left.
'Tis said with sorrow Time can cope;
But this I feel can ne'er be true:
For by the death-blow of my Hope
THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see;
The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale
By day or night, in weal or wo,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK
Δεύτε παιδες των Ελλήνων,
Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. The following translation is as literal as the author could make it in verse; it is of the same measure as that of the original.
SONS of the Greeks, arise!
The glorious hour's gone forth,
Display who gave us birth.
Sons of Greeks! let us go
In arms against the foe,
Then manfully despising
The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
Let your country see you rising,
And all her chains are broke.
Brave shades of chiefs and sages,
Behold the coming strife!
Hellénes of past ages,
Oh, start again to life!
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Sons of Greeks, &c.
Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Awake, and join thy numbers
That chief of ancient song,
And warring with the Persian
To keep his country free;
Sons of Greeks, &c.
WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,
To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!