For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,

And think I've done a feat to-day.

But since he cross'd the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo,-and-Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory!

'T were hard to say who fared the best :

Sad mortals! thus the Gods still plague you!

He lost his labour, I my jest:

For he was drown'd, and I 've the ague.

*

May 9, 1810.

MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.

Ζώη μου, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.

MAID of Athens, ere we part,

Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now, and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Ζωη μου, σας αγαπώ.

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 μου, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.

"My companion," says Mr. Hobhouse, "had before made a more perilous, but less celebrated passage; for I recollect that, when we were in Portugal, he swam from Old Lisbon to Belem Castle, and having to contend with a tide and counter current, the wind blowing freshly, was but little less than two hours in crossing." -E.

+ Romaic expression of 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 of any misconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, begging pardon 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 expressions were all Hellenised,

KIND Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here HAROLD lies-but where 's his Epitaph?
If such you seek, try Westminster and view
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you.

Athens.

* In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, etc. convey the sentiments of the parties by that universal deputy of Mercury-an old woman. A cinder says, "I burn for thee;" a bunch of flowers tied with hair, "Take me and fly;" but a pebble declares-what nothing else can.

+ Constantinople.

These lines are copied from a leaf of the original MS. of the second canto of "Childe Harold."-E.

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-hill'd† city seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we 're free.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

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 Thermopyla,

And warring with the Persian

To keep his country free;

*The song Ature, naïdes, &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 verse. It is of the same measure as that of the original. See vol. i, p. 91.

† Constantinople. "ETTλopos."

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 drunk to escape from thy malice,
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.

* 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 first burst of the French revolution, he joined himself to some other enthusiasts, and with them perambulated Greece, rousing the bold, and encouraging the timid by his minstrelsy. He afterwards went to Vienna, to solicit aid for a rising, which he and his comrades had for years been endeavouring to accomplish; but he 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.-E.

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 "xopo," in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.

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.

LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN :

"FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
To trace the birth and nursery of art:

Noble his cbject, glorious is his aim;

He comes to Athens, and he writes his name."

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING —

THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse,

His name would bring more credit than his verse.'

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.

* At Orchomenus, where stood the Temple of the Graces, I was tempted to exclaim, 'Whither have the Graces fled?' Little did I expect to find them here; yet here comes one of them with golden cups and coffee, and another with a book. The book is a register of names, some of which are far sounded by the voice of fame. Among them is Lord Byron's, connected with some lines which I here send you.→→ H. W. WILLIAMS.