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By those tresses unconfined,
By that lip I long to taste;
TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK
Δεύτε παίδες 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. See vol. i. p. 190.
The glorious hour's gone forth,
Display who gave us birth.
Sons of Greeks! let us go
In a river past our feet.
The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
And all her chains are broke.
Behold the coming strife!
Hellénes of past ages,
Oh, start again to life!
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
Sons of Greeks, &c.
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!
In old Thermopylæ,
To keep his country free;
The battle, long he stood, And like a lion raging, Expired in seas of blood.
Sons of Greeks, &c.
TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,
** Μπενω μες σ' περιβόλι
Szpaciólaln Xándý,” &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 “xépoi" in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.
Beloved and fair Haideé,
For surely I see her in thee.
Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Yet trembles for what it has sung ;
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
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,
Will deeply embitter the bowl;
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
My heart from these horrors to save : Will nought to my bosom restore thee?
Then open the gates of the grave.
Secure of his conquest before,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
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,