Hath shut above the falcon;glance that in it loved to lie! And fast is bound the springing step, that seem'd on breezes borne,

When to thy couch I came and said,- Wake, hunter, wake! 'tis morn!'

Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch'd by slow decay,

And I, the wither'd stem, remain-I would that grief might slay!

"Oh! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this would be! I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee! I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high ;A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou

must die!

That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red.

Why doth a mother live to say-my first-born and my dead? They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won -Speak thou, and I will hear, my child, Ianthis! my

sweet son!"

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young,

A fair-hair'd bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weep

ing sung. "Ianthis! look'st thou not on me?-Can love indeed

be fled?

When was it wo before to gaze upon thy stately head?
I would that I had follow'd thee, Ianthis, my beloved!
And stood, as woman oft hath stood, where faithful hearts

are proved!

That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side -It would have been a blessed thing together had we died! "But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword?

Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board? Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the vine,

Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine? And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart

Fast gushing like a mountain-spring!-and couldst thou thus depart?

Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?

-Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!

"Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led,

And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread;

But not where noble blood flow'd forth, where sounding javelins flew

Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not its last

adieu ?

What now can breathe of gladness more, what scene, what hour, what tone?

The blue skies fade with all their lights, they fade, since thou art gone!

Ev'n that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved

-Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!"

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young,

Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung. "Ianthis! brother of my soul! oh, where are now the days That laugh'd among the deep green hills, on all our infant plays?

When we two sported by the streams, or track'd them to their source,

And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet fearless course!

-I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, I see thy bounding step no more-my brother and my

friend!

"I come with flowers-for spring is come!-Ianthis! art thou here?

1 bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier!

Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's crown-but oh! more meet they seem,

The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream! More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low

Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's glow; The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send, ---Wo, that it smiles, and not for thee!-my brother and my friend!"

THE PARTING SONG.

This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel in his "Chansons Populaires de la Grece Moderne," and accompanied by some very interesting particulars respecting the extempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, as he informs us they are called, in which the modern Greeks are accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding farewell to their country and friends.

A YOUTH Went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasur'd and most oft recall'd,
And brightest kept, of love;-a mountain home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines,
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half unconscious prayer:-a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.
And this was what he left!-Yet many leave
Far more:-the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call'd out the soul's bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection's tones.-He left not these.
-Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother's love A bitterer grief
Was his-to part unloved!—of her unloved,
That should have breathed upon his heart, like Spring,
Fostering its young faint flowers!

Yet had he friends,
And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting-spot-and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest born.

The parting spot was reach'd-a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore, for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore

Their crowning snows.-Upon a rock he sprung,
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song :

"Farewell, farewell! I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!-thou 'rt from my native dell,

Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of farewell!

And fare thee well-flow on, my stream!-flow on, thou bright and free!

I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me; But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving

years,

And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears;

The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known;

The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!

"I see thee once again, my home! thou 'rt there amidst thy vines,

And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines.

It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves,

The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves!

-The hour the mother loves!-for me beloved it hath not been;

Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed scene! Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come

Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home? "Not as the dead!-no, not the dead!-We speak of them -we keep

Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep!

We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung,

We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band among!

But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that leaves on earth

No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its birth!
I go!-the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell
When mine is a forgotten voice.-Woods, mountains,
home, farewell!

"And farewell, mother!-I have borne in lonely silence long,

But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong,

And I will speak! though but the wind that wanders through the sky,

And but the dark deep-rustling pines and rolling streams reply.

Yes! I will speak!-within my breast whate'er hath seem'd to be,

There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee!

Brightly it would have gush'd, but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown

Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine own!

"Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneliness to pine, Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer brow than mine!

Forgive me that thou couldst not love!—it may be, that a

tone

Yet from my burning heart may pierce,through thine,when I am gone

!

And thou perchance may'st weep for him on whom thou ne'er hast smiled,

And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected

child!

Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kindred dwell,

And quench its thirst with love's free tears!—'tis all a dream-farewell!"

"Farewell!"-the echo died with that deep word,
Yet died not so the late repentant pang
By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast!
There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried,
"Return, return, my son !"-the echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring-" Return, my son !".