tinct and the terrible name of Charon occurs often in their poetry, though he has lost the form, as well as the attributes, which formerly distinguished him, and conducts the dead to their dark dwelling under the shape of a bird of evil omen and sable wing.

We here close this long introduction to illustrate the remarks we have made, by some specimens of the Modern Greek poetry: only premising that we have, perhaps, been more successful in copying the rudeness than the spirit of the compositions. We have imitated some of them in the measure of the Spanish ballads translated by Mr. Frere, as corresponding the most exactly of our metres to the Greek originals; and one we have attempted in a kind of verse which has been consecrated to themes of a kindred energy by a poet, to whom, in this place, we must not do more than hint a reference.

THE DREAM OF DEMOS.

Have not I told thee, Demos, have not I told thee thrice,
To veil thy turban, and to hide those warrior spoils of price?
Lest the Albanians see thee, and thou their balls abide,
Because of all thy bravery, and because of all thy pride.

The cuckoo sings upon the hills, the partridge in the woods,
And trills a little bird which o'er the head of Demos broods;
But not like spring birds singeth he, nor like the swallow gay-
He warbleth delicate human words, and thus the bird doth
say:
"Why art thou sad, O Demos? why is thy cheek so pale?"
"Oh, little bird, since thou dost ask, I'll tell thee all the tale :-
Last night I turn'd to sleep awhile, and in a ghastly dream,
Which came to me as I was lapt in sleeping, I did seem
To see the sky all wrapt in gloom, and bloody was each star,
And stain'd with gouts of blood was my Damascus scimitar."

We have alluded to the Oriental character which sometimes mingles with heir poetry: a Klepht, who has been wounded in the plains, thus charges his comrade to convey the news of his fall to his brethren on the mountains:

"If my companions ask of me, tell not that I am gone—

That I am dead, oh woe the day! but say that I have won

A bride in weary foreign lands—a grey stone for my mother-
The black earth for my loving wife-and a pebble for my brother."

The two following pieces are of the same description:

"Why are the mountains of Goura sad? Is it the hail that hath smote them? is it the rude winter? It is not the hail that hath smitten them—it is not the rude winter: it is the sabre of Kontoghiannis, who fighteth summer and winter."

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Diplas never feared the fight: he hath warriors who devour powder like bread, and balls like meat: who slay the Turks like kids, and their Agas like lambs."

The Greeks embellish all their songs with images of Nature. The following passage, for example, has evidently been inspired by pure love of the country, its birds, and fresh airs, and green trees:

"The sun was setting when Demos spake: Make my tomb, my soldiers, and make it wide and deep; that even there I may rise to the combat. But leave on my right a casement, that there the swallows

• Lochiel's Warning.

may come to tell me of the return of Spring, and the nightingale sing to me in the sweet month of May."

The following wish is in the same spirit of longing after Nature:

IOTIS DYING.

Uprisen am I early, two hours ere morning shine,

And I hear the shiver of the beech, the murmur of the pine:
The Klephts are wailing for their chief-" O rise, Iotis, rise,
Sleep not so soundly when the foe hath sought us to surprise."
"What shall I say, my children, unfortunate and brave?
Smart is the ball, and deadly is the wound the foemen gave.
But take me, take me by the hand, and lift me up awhile,
And bring me wine, that I may drink, and all my pains beguile.
And I'll sing a low and plaintive song-a song to make one weep:
O were I on the lofty hills, amid the foliage deep!

Where the little lambs feed far away from the wild rams and the sheep!” We have spoken of the dramatic effect of some of these ballads : here are two of them which will justify, we think, what we have ventured to say upon the subject. The first is particularly interesting, as relating an adventure of Spyros Skyllodemos, a Greek chief, who in 1806 was taken prisoner by Ali Pacha, and escaped as recorded in the ballad in the last will be found an allusion to Charon, which will shew the character under which he is regarded by the Modern Greeks:

SKYLLODEMOS.

Skyllodemos sat beneath the firs,

And Irene at his side,

"And pour to me the blood-red wine,

O maiden fair," he cried,

"That I may drink till the morning star

Doth shew his paly fire;

And ten warriors shall guard thee to thine abode
When the Pleiads shall retire."

"Am I thy slave, O Demos,

To serve thee with the red wine?

I am the wife of a chieftain bold,

And I come of an Archon's line."

At dawn of day pass'd along that way

Two weary travelling men,

Their beards were long, and their faces were dark,

And they stood near Demos then.

"Good morrow, Skyllodemos," they said :

Then up spake Skyllodeme,

"Ye are welcome, welcome, voyagers,

But how do ye know my name?"

"We bring thee thy brother's greetings," they said;
"Where have ye seen my brother?"

"We have seen him in Iannina's dungeon, a chain
At his hands, at his feet another."
Skyllodemos wept loud, and he started up ;-
"Where flyest thou, son of my mother?
Where flyest thou, chief? Look at me again—
Come and embrace thy brother!"

Then Demos knew him, and wistfully

All in his arms he clips :

And they kiss'd each other tenderly

On the eyes and on the lips.

"Sit down, my brother," then Demos said,
"And tell us how it befel

That thou saved thee from the wild Albanese,
And from thy prison-cell?"

"In the night I loosed my hands and my feet,
And I burst my prison door;

And I leapt into the reedy marsh,
Where I lay till day was o'er.

Then I seized a boat which lay on the lake,
And I cross'd it over to thee:
Last night lay Iannina far behind,
Now I'm on the hills, and free!"

CONSTANTINE.

A fair-haired maiden boasted
She did not Charon fear,
Because she had nine brave brothers
That loved their sister dear;
And she had bold Constantine
Who for her love did sigh-
He who had many broad lands
And withal four castles high.
But Charon came, like a raven,
And slew the beauteous bride;
"O thou hast slain my daughter!"
The woful mother cried,
There are steps upon the mountains,
And music in the glen:

'Tis her beloved Constantine,

With twice two hundred men.
His heart is joyous with the sounds--
But, alas, it grieved him sore,
When suddenly he sees a cross
Issue from his bride's door.
Then with a sad foreboding heart
He spurred his black steed on,
Until he came to the church where they
Were placing a funeral-stone.

"Oh, tell me, tell me, architect,
Who in that tomb must lie?"

"It is a fair-haired maiden,
Who had a soft black eye;
And she had nine brave brethren,
Who caused her mickle pride;
And she had bold Constantine
Who woo'd her for his bride-
He who hath many broad lands,
And four castles tall beside."
"O build the tomb then, architect,
And build it broad and deep;
And build it large and high withal,
That two therein may sleep."
Then out he drew a golden blade,
And he smote him in the side;

He fell into the open tomb,

And he sleeps there with his bride.

This Ballad is not to be found in the volume of the Greek Songs just published: we translate it from a collection in the possession of M. Buchon, one of the editors of the Constitutionnel. In noticing this, we take the opportunity of saying, that we VOL. XI. NO. XLIV.

L

We have hinted a resemblance between the manners of the Greek mountaineers and the outlaws of Scotland: there is, at all events, the same generosity and gallantry in the actions and sentiments recorded of all these gentlemen. A priest of St. Peter's, who has been wronged by one of the Klephtic chiefs, very naturally complains; and the warrior thus justifies himself.

"What have I done to him that he should complain of me? Have I slain his sheep, or his oxen? I kissed his son's wife, and his two daughters: I slew one of his sons, and took another prisoner, for whose ransom I demanded five hundred and two pieces of gold: but I gave all these to my soldiers, and kept not one broad piece for myself." This is "the lesson of Nannos"—a great moral lesson!

"Set we upon the house of the lady Nikolo, who hath many broad pieces and much plate: Welcome is Nannos,' shall she say, 'and welcome are his bold warriors!' And the soldiers shall have the gold pieces, and the youths the paras-as for me, I seek the dame!"

There are few recollections of Ancient Greece in this volume: here is one piece, however, which shews that Olympus is still a sacred mountain :

OLYMPUS.

Olympus and Kissavos, those hills of ancient fame,
Dispute together wildly which hath the greatest name;
Then spake the proud Olympus-" Let our dispute be done!
Kissavos, whom the Turkish foot hath ever trampled on!

I am that old Olympus, renown'd throughout the world,

My peaks are forty-two-on each a banner is unfurl'd;

My springs are seventy-two each bough upon me hath its Klepht,

Nor is my topmost summit of its lordly eagle reft:

He holds within his claw the head of sonie brave fallen Greek—

'O head, what hast thou done that thou should'st be thus treated? Speak !' Eat, bird,' thus spake the head, and feast thyself my youth upon,

And drink my courage with my life, which is in battle gone :

So shall thy wing spread broad and vast, and strong shall be thy claws :
-At Louros and Xeromeros I was Armatolos.

Twelve years have I a Klepht been among Olympus' trees—

And sixty Agas have I slain, and burned their villages:

As for the others I have kill'd-of Turks or Albanese,

Too numerous are they, Eagle! I cannot count them all!

But now my day is also come amid the fight to fall.'"

The following expresses, along with the national hatred to the Turks, that dread of dishonour even after death which we have mentioned as distinguishing the insurgent Greeks :

GYPHTAKIS.

The hills thirst for snow, and the valleys for water,

The hawks for young birds, and the Othmans for slaughter.
-"Where wanders in weeping young Gyphtakis' mother,
All wildly lamenting her children and brother?

have heard M. Buchon named as the French translator of these songs; though M. Fauriel, doubtless from oversight, has omitted to do that accomplished person the justice of noticing his labours in his preface or introduction.

*Gyphtakis signifies the young gipsy, and was the surname of a Klephtic chief of dark complexion, killed in battle against the Arab Isouph, one of the generals of Ali_Pacha.

No more is she seen by the mountains and valleys."
"Even now from the huts of the shepherds she sallies"-
There loud roar'd the voice of the echoing gun,
But it was not to tell that a bride had been won,
Nor to shout that the feast of the vale had begun.
-Gyphtakis hath a ball in his hand and his knee-
He trembles-he falls like a dark cypress tree!
But loudly he cried ere he fell-“ Ở my brother,
Where art thou? Return to the son of thy mother!-
Save my life or my head from the Arab's wild paw,
Lest he snatch it, and bear it to Ali Pacha!"

The courage and patriotism of women sometimes figure in the Greek ballads :

"The Albanians have attacked Despo in her tower of Dimoulas: " "Wife of George, yield up thine arms!"-" Despo never had, and never will have the Liapides for lords!"-She seizes a burning brand, and calls loudly to her daughters: "Let us not be the slaves of the Turks, my children-follow me!" She fired the gunpowder, and they all vanished in the blaze."

The numbers of the Turks who fall are always recounted with exaggeration, to contrast with the boldness and the fortune of their enemies.

BOUKOVALLAS.

"What is the uproar which I hear? What is that terrible sound? Are they slaying oxen? Or are the wild beasts combating ?-They are not slaying oxen-nor are the wild beasts combating: Boukovallas fights against fifteen hundred, between Kenouria and the Kerassovon. The shots fall like rain, and the balls like hail.-And a fair-haired maiden cries from her casement: 'Stay the fight, O Boukovallas, and stop the firing: let the dust fall, and the vapour disperse, and then we will count thine army, to see how many are missing.' The Turks have counted thrice: they have lost five hundred men. The children of the Klephts have counted: there are wanting but three warriors. The first gone for bread, the second for water, the third, the bravest of the three, is stretched dead upon his gun.'

is

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Sometimes the Grecian abhorrence of the Turkish tyrants assumes the air of contempt; as in the following ballad, which is, in our opinion, of singular elegance and beauty:

KALIAKOUDAS.

"O were I a bird, I would fly, I would journey through the air; I would look towards the land of the Franks, towards the melancholy Ithaca: I would listen to the wife of Kaliakoudas, as she wails and laments, and pours forth her bitter tears. She mourns like the partridge, and tears her hair as the stork her feathers; and she wears a sable vestment, black as the crow's wing; and she gazes from her casement upon the sea; and of every vessel which passes by, she asks-'O ye little barks, ye ships, and gilded brigantines, as ye went to the melancholy Valtos, or as ye came therefrom-have not ye seen my spouse? have not ye seen Kaliakoudas?'-'We left him yesterday beyond Gavrolimi. They had lambs which they were roasting, and sheep upon the spit; and to turn the spit, they had five Beys.'"

We here close our account of this very interesting publication; for the second volume of which we look with the greatest impatience. We have been anxious to notice it as early as possible; and perhaps our