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By those tresses unconfin’d,
Wood by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μ8, σας αγαπω.


By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircld waist;
By all the token-flowers * that tell
What words can never speak so well ;
By Love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μέ, σας αγαπώ.

In the East (where 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

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.


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


Translation of the famous Greek War Song, Δεύτε παίδες των

*Exaywy, 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, which is of the same measure with that of the original. See Appendix.

Sons of the Greeks, arise !

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

Display who gave us birth.

# Constantinople.


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, Let your country see you rising,

And all her chains are broke. Brave shades of chiefs and sages,

Behold the coming strife!
Hellenes 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. * Constantinople. “ Erlanopos."


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 sav'd 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, Expir’d in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

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Translation of the Romaic Song,

« Μπενώ μες το περιβόλι
«Ωραιόλαδη Χάηδή, &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 “ xópoi” in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.


I enter thy garden of roses,

Belov'd 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 what it has sung;

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