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Ζώη μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ. (2)

ATHENS, 1810.


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!
Here my vow before I go,

Ζώη μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ.


By those tresses unconfined,
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 μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ.


By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;

By all the token-flowers (3) that tell

What words can never speak so well;
By Love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ.


Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, (4) Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! Ζώη μοῦ, σάς ἀγαπῶ.



Δεύτε παῖδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων,

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; it is of the same measure as that of the original. See vol. i. p. 130.


SONS of the Greeks, arise!

The glorious hour's gone forth,

And, worthy of such ties,

Display who gave us birth.

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At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh, join with me!

And the seven-hill'd (5) 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 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, &c.


“ Μπενω μες ̓ τὸ περιβόλι
'Ωραιότατη 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 66 Xogo" in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.


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.

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