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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, σας αγαπω.


Μπενω μες σ περιβόλι

S2' percolc7» 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 “ Xopor" in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.

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.

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.


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.

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.
Ab, tell me, my soul! must I perish

By pangs wbich a smile would dispe!? 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,

Add mourns o'er thine absence with me,


DEAR object of defeated care!

Though now of Love and thee bereft,
To reconcile me with despair
Tbine 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

My Memory immortal grew.

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1. Tae kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,

Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.

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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

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?

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.



Δευσε παιδες των Ελληνων , 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,
And, worthy of such ties,

Display who gave us birth.

Sons of Greeks! let us go
In arms against the foe,
Till their hated blood shall flow

lo a river past our feet.

Then manfully despising

The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
Let your country see you rising,

And all her cbains 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.


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 Thermopylae,
And warring with the Persian

To keep his country free;
With his three hundred waging

The battle, long be 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.

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