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.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,
* Μπενω μες τσ' περιβόλι
‘Ωραιότατη Χάηδή,” &c. *

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,
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 Haidée.

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 drank 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 perish

By pangs which a smile would dispel?

Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish,

For torture repay me too well?

The song from which this is taken is a great favourite with the young girls at Athens of all classes. Their manner of singing it is by verses in rotation, the whol number present joining in the chorus. I have heard it frequently at our "" in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.-B

χόροι,

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.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.

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.

ON PARTING.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,

Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

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 woe,
That heart, no longer free,

Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent, ache for thee.

March, 1811

TO THYRZA.*

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?

Lord Byron never would tell even to his intimate friends, who Thyrza was

By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain ;
The past, the future filed to thee,

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!
Could this have been-a werd, 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 woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow.
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me deserted towers,
E're called but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours ?
Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand;
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;

The kiss, so guiltless and refined,

That Love each warmer wish forebore ; Those eyes proclaimed so pure a mind, Even passion blush'd to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice, When prone, unlike thee, to repine; The song, celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine;

The pledge we wore-I wear it still,

But where is thine ?-Ah? where art thou.

Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.

If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again; But if in worlds more blest than this Thy virtues seek a fitter sphore, Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here.

Teach me too early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
On earth thy love was such to me,

It fain would form my hope in heaven!

483

October 1611

TO THYRZA.

ONE struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again.

It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before.
Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form'd to live alone:
I'll be that light, unmeaning thing,

That smiles with all, and weeps with none.
It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou
Hast filed, and left me lonely here;
Thou'rt nothing,-all are nothing now.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.

Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul.
The heart-the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night
It soothed to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deem'd the heavenly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the gean wave,
"Now Thyrza gazes on that moon,"
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave?

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins,

""Tis comfort still," I faintly said,

"That Thyrza cannot know my pains:"
Like freedom to the time-worn slave,
A boon 'tis idle then to give,

Relenting Nature vainly gave
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

By Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new!

How different now thou meet'st my gaze
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue
The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent-ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,
Or break the heart to which thou'rt press'd!
Time tempers love, but not removes,
More hallow'd when its hope is fled:
Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead!

AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE. AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence-for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days-
But lull the chords, for now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,
On what I am-on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
And now their softiest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of theo, Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart!

"Tis silent all!-but on my ear

The well remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still: Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake; Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be flown.

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he who through life's dreary way

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath

Will long lament the vanish'd ray

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path