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. 196. 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 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! Who made that bold diversion 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. 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 " xópo" in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty. 1. I ENTER thy garden of roses, Each morning where Flora reposes, 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, 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. But when drunk to escape from thy malice, My heart from these horrors to save: 3. As the chief who to combat advances Secure of his conquest before, 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? |