STANZAS Composed October 11th, 1809, during the night; in a thunder-storm, when the guides had lost the road to Zitza," near the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania, Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, Where Pandus' mountains rise, Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, But show where rocks our path have crost, When lightning broke the gloom And lead us where they dwell. And who 'mid thunder peals can hear Our signal of distress? And who that heard our shouts would rise To try the dubious road? Nor rather deem from nightly cries That outlaws were abroad. Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! Yet here one thought has still the power To keep my bosom warm. While wand'ring through each broken path, While elements exhaust their wrath, Not on the sea, not on the sea, Thy bark hath long been gone: Now thou art safe: nay, long ere now And since I now remember thee Which mirth and music sped; At times from out her lattic'd halls Look o'er the dark blue sea; Endear'd by days gone by, And when the admiring circle mark The paleness of thy face, A half form'd tear, a transient spark Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun Nor own for once thou thought'st of one, Though smile and sigh alike are vain, When sever'd hearts repine, If when the wintry tempest roar'd Though in the genial month of May, 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; 'Twere 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. SONG. Ζώη μας σάς ἀγαπῶ. Maid of Athens, ere we part, Ζώη μᾶ, σάς ἀγαπῶ. By those tresses unconfin'd, Woo'd by each gean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, Ζώη μᾶ, σάς ἀγαπῶ. By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircl'd waist; What words can never speak so well; Maid of Athens! I am gone: Athens holds my heart and soul. Translation of the famous Greek War Song, Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Grecce. 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 Till their hated blood shall fow The Turkish tyrant's yoke, Let your country see you rising, And all her chains are broke, Erave shades of chiefs and sages, Behold the coming strife! Hellenes of past ages, Oh, start again to life! Translation of the Romaic Song, The song from which this is taken is a Belov'd and fair Haideé, Each morning where Flora reposes, Oh, Lovely! thus-low I implore thee, Yet trembles for what it has sung; But the loveliest garden grows hateful When Love has abandon'd the bowersBring 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 those 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, Has pierc'd through my heart to its core. Ah, teil 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, Peloved but false Haideé! And mourns o'er thine absence with me. END OF VOLUME XXXIV. |