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Δευθε 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. 196.


Sons of the Greeks, arise !

The glorious hour's gone forth,
And, worthy of such ties,

Display who gave us birth.


Sons of Greeks! let us go
In arms against the foe,
Till their hated blood shall flow

In a river past our feet.


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

Your sleep, oh, join with me!
And the seven-hillid (5) city seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

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

In old Thermopylæ,
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.


« Μπενω μες "σ' περιβόλι
« 'Ωραιόλαδη Χαηδή,” &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 “xópoo” 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 Haideé.


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 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 ?

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