SONG.

Ζώη με, τάς 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 me vow before I go,
Ζώη μυ, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

By those tresses unconfin'd,
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,
Ζώη μα, σάς ἀγαπῶ.

By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircl'd waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By Love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μυ, σάς ἀγαπῶ,

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!
Εάν με, τάς ἀγαπῶ.

Translation of the famous Greek War Song,
Δεύτε παῖδες των Ελλήνων.

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
In armis against the foe,

Till thelf 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!

Translation of the Romaic Seng,
σε Μπενώ μες το περιβόλι
"St'pasólaln Xándh, &c.

The song from which this is taken is a
great favourite with the young girls of
Athens. 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;
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 Haideé.
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 1 implore thee

My heart from those borrors to save a 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 1 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 Haide é! There Flora all wither'd reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. GENERAL