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« Μπενω μες ' περιβόλι

Ωραιότατη Χάηδή,&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“ Zópoe" 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



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

For torture repay me too well? [cherish, 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.



Dear object of defeated care !

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

Thine 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.




The 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.

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I ask no pledge to make me blest

In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.


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.


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. And didst thou not, since Death for thee

Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart? Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?

Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, In that dread hour ere death appear,

When silent Sorrow fears to sigh, Till all was past? But when no more

'Twas thine to reck of human wo, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flow'd as fast--as now they flow.

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