TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG. Δεύτε παίδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων.* 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 Till their hated blood shall flow In a river past our feet. Then manfully despising Oh, start again to life! At the sound of my trumpet, breaking Awake, and join thy numbers That chief of ancient song, Who saved thee once from falling, The terrible the strong! Who made that bold diversion And warring with the Persian With his three hundred waging TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG. Μπενω μες τσ περιβόλι I ENTER thy garden of roses, Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 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, *The song was written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. Constantinople 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 Haidée! There Flora all wither'd reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. ON PARTING. THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, The tear that from thine eyelid streams I ask no pledge to make me blest Must bear the love it cannot show, ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN. ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be, That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain? Have years of care for thine and thee Alike been all employ'd in vain? Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee feels thou art A fitter emblem of his own. LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.* WEEP, daughter of a royal line, A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah happy if each tear of thine Could wash a father's fault away Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tearsAuspicious to these suffering isles: And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles, The Princess Charlotte, THE CHAIN I GAVE, FROM THE TURKISH. THE cham I gave was fair to view, And ill deserved the fate it found. But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such. Let him who from thy neck unbound The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Re-string the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too: The chain is broke, the music mute. "Tis past-to them and thee adieu False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRULY LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven, Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven: Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you? Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spellIndulge our honest pride, and say, How well! As soars this fane to emulate the last, On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse, With garlands deck your own Menander's head,* Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead! Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, And made us blush that you forebore to blame; This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises-may our stage unfold side. VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT HALES-OWEN, WHEN Dryden's fool,† "unknowing what he sought," His hours in whistling spent, "for want of This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense thought," Supplied, and amply too, by innocence. Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers, In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, Th offended guests would not, with blushing, see These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE! Till Lethe quench life's burning stream, † See Dryden's "Cymon and Iphigenia. ! Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, TO TIME. TIME! on whose arbitrary wing Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load, For now I bear the weight alone. I would not one fond heart should share Thy future ills shall press in vain : It felt, but still forgot thy power: Retards, but never counts the hour. But could not add a night to woe; Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, AH! Love was never yet without Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire But caught within the subtle snare, The cold repulse, the look askance, And art thou changed, and canst thou hate? My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, And still thy heart, without partaking THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, And spurns deceiver and deceit; Whose love is as sincere as sweet,- As if a dream alone had charm'd? And shouldst thou seek his end to know: My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He'il linger long in silent woe: But live-until I cease to be. REMEMBER HIM WHOM PASSION'S POWER. REMEMBER him whom passion's power When neither fell, though both were loved. That yielding breast, that melting eye, Too much invited to be bless'd; But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost To spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name. Think that, whate'er to others, thou Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: I bless thy purer soul even now, Even now, in midnight solitude. Oh, God! that we had met in time, Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee ! Far may thy days, as heretofore, From this our gaudy world be past! And that too bitter moment o'er, Oh! may such trial be thy last. This heart, alas! perverted long, Itself destroy'd might thee destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall. Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath pass'd, may guess What there thy bosom must endure. Oh! pardon that imploring tear, Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; For me they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be, The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree, And almost deem the sentence sweet. Still, had I loved thee less, y heart Had then less sacrificed to thine; It felt not half so much to part As if its guilt had made thee mine. IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. woe, And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow: And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes-but, oh! While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; At once such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship more, but cannot love thee less. FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 66 TU MI CHAMAS." IN moments to delight devoted, "My life!" with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words! on which my heart had doted, If youth could neither fade nor die. To death even hours like these must roll, Ah! then repeat those accents never: Or change" my life!" into "my soul!" Which, like my love, exists for ever. ANOTHER VERSION. You call me still your life.-Oh! change the word Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh: Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name, For, like the soul, my love can never die. WINDSOR POETICS. LINES COMPOSED ON THE OCCASION OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT BEING SEEN STANDING BETWEEN THE COFFINS OF HENRY VIII. AND CHARLES I. IN THE ROYAL VAULT AT WINDSOR. FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain, We will part, we will fly to-unite it again! Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! Forgive me, adored one !-forsake, if thou wilt; But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, And man shall not break it-whatever thou may'st. And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be; And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet, With thee by my side, than with worlds at my feet. One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; And the heartless may wonder at all I resignThy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. To us bequeath-'tis all their fate allows-- woe, Of half its bitterness, for one so dear; If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits What can his vaulted gallery now disclose? Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine: The symmetry of youth, the grace of mien, The eye that gladdens, and the brow serene; The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair! |