TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG,

Δεύτε παῖδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων,

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. See vol. i. p. 190.

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!

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,

66 Μπενω μες σ' περιβόλι
“N'gasólaln Xándý," &c.

I have

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. heard it frequently at our "xópo" 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.

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.

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.