4.

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!
Ζωη με, σὰς ἀγαπω.

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.

1.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haideé,
Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,
Receive this fond truth from my tongue,

Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung;

As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Through her eyes, through her every feature,
Shines the soul of the young Haideé.

2.

But the loveliest garden grows hateful
When Love has abandon'd the bowers;
Bring me hemlock—since mine is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
* Constantinople

.

The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,
Will deeply embitter the bowl;

But when drunk to escape from thy malice,
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save:
Will nought to my bosom restore thee?
Then open the gates of the grave.

8.

As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,

Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish

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.

1.

DEAR object of defeated care!

Though now of Love and thee bereft,

To reconcile me with despair

Thine image and my tears are left.

2.

'Tis said with sorrow Time can cope;

But this I feel can ne'er be true:

For by the death-blow of my Hope
My Memory immortal grew.

ON PARTING.

1.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

2.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see;

The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.

3.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;

Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.

4.

Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?

5.

By day or night, in weal or wo,
That heart, no longer free,

Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK

WAR SONG,

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.

1.

SONS of the Greeks, arise!

The glorious hour's gone forth,
And, worthy of such ties,

Display who gave us birth.

Chorus.

Sons of Greeks! let us go

In arms against the foe,
Till their hated blood shall flow
In a river past our feet.

2.

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
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven-hill'd* city seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

* Constantinople.

VOL. VI.-R

3.

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Lethargic dost thou lie?

Awake, and join thy numbers
With Athens, old ally!
Leonidas recalling,

That chief of ancient song,
Who saved ye once from falling,
The terrible! the strong!
Who made that bold diversion
In old Thermopyla,

And warring with the Persian

To keep his country free;
With his three hundred waging
The battle, long he stood,
And like a lion raging,
Expired in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

TO THYRZA.

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what Truth might well have said,

By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid?
By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain;
The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!
Could this have been-a word, a look
That softly said, "we part in peace,"
Had taught my bosom how to brook,
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.