CHORUS. Sons of Greeks! let us go Till their hated blood shall flow Then manfully despising Oh, start again to life! At the sound of my trumpet, breaking And the seven-hill'd (1) city seeking, Sons of Greeks, & .. 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 Thermopylæ, (1) Constantinople. « Επτάλοφος.” And warring with the Persian To keep his country free; The battle, long he stood, Sons of Greeks, &c. (1) TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, “ Μπενω μες ’τσ' περιβόλι Ωραιότατη Χάηδή,” &c. (2) I ENTER thy garden of roses, (3) (1) [Riga was a Thessalian, and passed the first part of his youth among his native mountains, in teaching ancient Greek to his countrymen. On the first burst of the French revolution, he joined himself to some other enthusiasts, and with them perambulated Greece, rousing the bold, and encouraging the timid by his minstrelsy. He afterwards went to Vienna, to solicit aid for a rising, which he and his comrades had for years been endeavouring to accomplish; but he was given up by the Austrian government to the Turks, who vainly endeavoured by torture to force from him the names of the other conspirators. - E.] (2) 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 "xoga," in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty. (3) [National songs and popular works of amusement throw no small light on the manners of a people: they are materials which most travellers have within their reach, but which they almost always disdain to collect. Lord Byron has shown a better taste; and it is to be hoped that his example will, in future, be generally followed. - GEORGE ELLIS.] Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee, Yet trembles for what it has sung; But the loveliest garden grows hateful 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, 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 Haidée! There Flora all wither'd reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN : "FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart To trace the birth and nursery of art: Noble his object, glorious is his aim; He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING: THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own; But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, His name would bring more credit than his verse. (1) (1) [At Orchomenus, where stood the Temple of the Graces, I was tempted to exclaim, ' Whither have the Graces fled?' Little did I expect to find them here; yet here comes one of them with golden cups and coffee, and another with a book. The book is a register of names, some of which are far sounded by the voice of fame. Among them is Lord Byron's, connected with some lines which I here send you.-H. W. WILLIAMS.] THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, The tear that from thine eyelid streams 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 My pen were doubly weak: By day or night, in weal or woe, And silent ache for thee. March, 1811. |