TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE'S DOLE IN THE MEDEA

OF EURIPIDES.

Oh how I wish that an embargo

Had kept in port the good ship Argo!

Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks,
Had never pass'd the Azure rocks;

But now I fear her trip will be a

Damn'd business for my Miss Medea, &c. &c.30

MY EPITAPH.

YOUTH, Nature, and relenting Jove,
To keep my lamp in strongly strove ;
But Romanelli was so stout,

He beat all three-and blew it out.31

June, 1810.

October, 1810.

SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH.

KIND Reader take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here HAROLD lies-but where's his Epitaph?
If such you seek, try Westminster, and view
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you.

Athens.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.32

DEAR object of defeated care!

Though now of Love and thee bereft,

To reconcile me with despair,

Thine image and my tears are left.

'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.

Athens, January, 1811.

TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG,

“ Δεύτε παῖδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων. 33

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.

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!

Hellénes of past ages,

Oh, start again to life!

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking

Your sleep, oh, join with me!

34

And the seven-hill'd 3+ 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 Thermopyla,

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.35

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,

Η Μπενω μες τσ' περιβόλι

Ωραιότατη Χάηδή," &c. 36

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.
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 these 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,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.

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 Haidée!

There Flora all wither'd reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me.

ON PARTING.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,

Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;

Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.

Nor need I write to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?

By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,

Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

1811.

March, 1811.

EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET AND

SHOEMAKER.37

STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.

His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,

With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella?'
For character--he did not lack it;

And if he did, 'twere shame to "Black-it."

Malta, May 16, 1811.

FAREWELL TO MALTA.

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!

Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!

Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!

Adieu, ye mansions where-I've ventured !
Adieu ye cursed streets of stairs!

(How surely he who mounts you swears!)
Adieu, ye merchants often failing!

Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!

Adieu, ye packets-without letters!

Adieu, ye fools--who ape your betters!

Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,

That gave me fever, and the spleen!

Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,
Adieu his Excellency's dancers!

Adieu to Peter-whom no fault's in,

But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!

Adieu red coats, and redder faces!