6 The song Aeûte maîdes, &c., was written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionise Greece. This translation is as literal as the author could make it in It is of the same measure as that of the original. [While at the Franciscan convent, Lord Byron devoted some hours daily to the study of the Romaic.] 7 Constantinople. "Eπráλopos."

verse.

66

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.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG

“ Μπένω 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.

s [Riga was a Thessalian, and passed the first part of his youth among his native mountains in teaching ancient Greek to his countrymen. On the outbreak of the French revolution, he and some other enthusiasts perambulated Greece, rousing the bold, and encouraging the timid by their minstrelsy. He afterwards went to Vienna to solicit aid for a rising, but was given up by the Austrian government to the Turks, who vainly endeavoured by torture to force from him the names of the other conspirators.]

9 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 χόροι ” in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.

66

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 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
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.

1811.

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.

EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER.'

STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,

The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.

His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella?·
For character-he did not lack it;
And if he did, 'twere shame to "Black-it."

Malta, May 16, 1811.

1 [He died in 1810, and his works have followed him.]

FAREWELL TO MALTA.

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!

Adieu, ye mansions where-I've ventured!

Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!

(How surely he who mounts you swears!)
Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets-without letters!
Adieu, ye fools-who ape your betters!
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen!
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,

Adieu his Excellency's dancers!

Adieu to Peter-whom no fault's in,

But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!
Adieu red coats, and redder faces!
Adieu the supercilious air

Of all that strut en militaire !"
I go but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad-but in a different way.

Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue!
While either Adriatic shore,

And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and woman's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme-because 'tis "gratis."

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,

Perhaps you think I mean to praise her—