TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG, 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. 190. 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. 2. Then manfully despising The Turkish tyrant's yoke, Let your country see you rising, Hellénes of past ages, Oh, start again to life! At the sound of my trumpet, breaking And the seven-hill'd (5) city seeking, Sons of Greeks, &c. 3. 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 Thermopyla, And warring with the Persian To keep his country free; And like a lion raging, Sons of Greeks, &c. TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG, “ Μπενω μες σ' περιβόλι I have 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. heard it frequently at our "ópo" in the winter of 1810-11. is plaintive and pretty. The air 1. I ENTER thy garden of roses, Each morning where Flora reposes, Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee, Which utters its song to adore thee, 2. But the loveliest garden grows hateful But when drunk to escape from thy malice, My heart from these horrors to save: 3. As the chief who to combat advances Secure of his conquest before, Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 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, Beloved but false Haideé! There Flora all wither'd reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me. WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE. 1. DEAR object of defeated care! Though now of Love and thee bereft, To reconcile me with despair Thine image and my tears are left. 2. "Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope; But this I feel can ne'er be true: For by the death-blow of my Hope My Memory immortal grew. ON PARTING. 1. THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left, Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift Untainted back to thine. |