GREEK FUNERAL CHANT, OR MYRIOLOGUE. ["Les Chants Funèbres par lesquels on déplore en Grèce la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriologia-comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mère, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont là, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en épanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel et sa mesure de tendresse pour le défunt, la douleur qu'elle ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. Là elles changent de vêtemens, s'habillent de blanc, comme pour la cérémonie nuptiale, avec cette différence, qu'elles gardent la tête nue, les cheveux épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en cercle autour du mort, et leur douleur s'exhale de nouveau, et comme la première fois, sans règle et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontanées succèdent bientôt des lamentations d'une autre espèce: ce sont les Myriologues. Ordinairement c'est la plus proche parente qui prononce le sien la première; après elle les autres parentes, les amies, les simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composés et chantés par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvisés, toujours en vers, et toujours chantés sur un air qui diffère d'un lieu à un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donné, reste invariablement consacré à ce genre de poësie."-Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne, par C. FAURIEL.] A WAIL was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young- "I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave ! Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouched by slow decay,— "Oh! ever, when I met thy look, I knew that this would be! 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! A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young- I would that I had followed thee, Ianthis, my beloved! But not where noble blood flowed 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! Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved : The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream- GREEK PARTING SONG. [This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his "Chansons Populaires de la Grèce 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 The longest treasured, and most oft recalled, Yet had he friends, "Farewell, farewell! I hear thee, O thou rushing stream !—thou'rt from my native dell, I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me; 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 smilest, 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 even the lyre they touched, we love the lay they sung, We pass with softer step the place they filled 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 seemed to be, There lay a hidden fount of love that would have gushed for thee! Brightly it would have gushed-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 ́et from my burning heart may pierce through thine, when I am gone; And thou, perchance, mayst weep for him on whom thou ne'er hast smiled, And the grave give his birthright back to thy neglected child! "Farewell!"-the echo died with that deep word; Yet died not so the late repentant pang By the strain quickened in the mother's breast! THE SULIOTE MOTHER. [It is related, in a French life of Ali Pasha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy.] SHE stood upon the loftiest peak, Amidst the clear blue sky; A bitter smile was on her cheek, "Dost thou see them, boy?—through the dusky pines Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy? For in the rocky strait beneath, Lay Suliote sire and son : They had heaped high the piles of death "They have crossed the torrent, and on they come: There, where the hunter laid by his spear, And now the horn's loud blast was heard, Till even the upper air was stirred, "Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire, As if at a glance of thine armèd sire? Still-be thou still !-there are brave men low : Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him now!" But nearer came the clash of steel, "Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth? |