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Ζω» με, σας αγαπω.*

ATHENS, 1810.

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since thou bast left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζωή με, σας αγαπω.

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each Ægean wind;
By those lids, whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζωη με, σας αγαπω.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowerst that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By Love's alternate joy and wo,

Ζωη με, σας αγαπω. * Zoe mou sas agapo, or Zon urs cas agama, a Romaic expression ef tenderness: if I translate it I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I supposed they could not; and if I do not I may affront the ladies. For fear

on the of I shall do so, beren wordon of the learned. It means “ My life, I love you!" which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day, as Juvenal tells us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic expressious were all Hellenized.

+ In the East (where the ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble'assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, &c. convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal deputy of Mercury-an old woman.

einder says," I burn for thee;"'a bunch of flowers tied with hair, “ Talme and fly;" but a pebble declares--what nothing else can.


Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,*
Athens holds my heart and soul;
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Ζωη με, σας αγαπω.

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Μπενω μες ησ περιβόλι

S'peccola7n Xandn,' &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 “Xopor" in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.

I ENTER tby 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 wbat it has sung;
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Tbrough her eyes, through her every feature,

Shines the soul of the young Haideé.

But the loveliest garden grows bateful

When Love has abandon'd the bowers;
Bring me hemlock-since mioe is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.

* Constantinoplet

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 advauces

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 Haideé! There Flora all wither'd reposes,

Add mourns o'er thine absence with me,


1. DEAR object of defeated care!

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

Tbine image and my tears are left.

2. '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.


1. TAE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,

Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.

2. 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.

4. 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.



Δευ1ε παιδες 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.

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 bated 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 cbains 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-bill'd* city seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, &c.



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