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TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK

WAR SONG,

“ Δεῦτε παῖδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων.” 1

SONS of the Greeks, arise!

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

Display who gave us birth.

CHORUS.

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,

1. The song Aeûte maîdes, etc., was written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize 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. [For the original, see Poetical Works, 1891, Appendix, p. 792. For Constantine Rhigas, see Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 199, note 2. Hobhouse (Travels in Albania, 1858, ii. 3) prints a version (Byron told Murray that it was "well enough," Letters, 1899, iii. 13) of Aeûre waîdes, of his own composition. He explains in a footnote that the metre is "a mixed trochaic, except the chorus." "This song," he adds, "the chorus particularly, is sung to a tune very nearly the same as the Marseillois Hymn. Strangely enough, Lord Byron, in his translation, has entirely mistaken the metre." The first stanza runs as follows:

"Greeks arise! the day of glory

Comes at last your swords to claim.
Let us all in future story

Rival our forefathers' fame.
Underfoot the yoke of tyrants
Let us now indignant trample,
Mindful of the great example,
And avenge our country's shame."]

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TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG

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-hilled city1 seeking,
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, etc.

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.

Sons of Greeks, etc.

SONGA

[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]

I. Constantinople. "ETάλopos."

21

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,

“ Μπένω μεσ' τὸ περιβόλι,

Ωραιοτάτη Χαηδή,” κ.τ.λ.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Belovéd 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 abandoned the bowers;
Bring me hemlock-since mine is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when poured 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.

1. 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 “xópo” in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.

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,

Belovéd but false Haidée !

There Flora all withered reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me.

1811.

[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]

ON PARTING.

I.

THE 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:1

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

3.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone; "1.

i. Has bound my soul to thee.-[MS. M.]
ii. When wandering forth alone.—[MS. M.}

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,i
Unless the heart could speak?

5.

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.

[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]

FAREWELL TO MALTA.1

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!

Adieu, Sirocco, sun, and sweat!

Adieu, thou palace rarely entered!

Adieu, ye mansions where-I've ventured!
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 2

(How surely he who mounts them swears!)

Adieu, ye merchants often failing!

Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!

i. Oh! what can tongue or pen avail

Unless my heart could speak.-[MS. M.]

1. [These lines, which are undoubtedly genuine, were published for the first time in the sixth edition of Poems on his Domestic Circumstances (W. Hone, 1816). They were first included by Murray in the collected Poetical Works, in vol. xvii., 1832.]

2. ["The principal streets of the city of Valetta are flights of stairs."-Gazetteer of the World.]

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