TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK

WAR SONG.

Δεύτε παίδες τῶν Ἑλλήνων.* 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!
And the seven hill'd city seeking, t
Fight, conquer, till we're free.
Sons of Greeks, etc.
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 thee 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, etc.

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG.

Μπενω μες τσ περιβόλι
Ωραιότατη Χάηδή, etc.

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 iow 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,

*The song was written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. Constantinople

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.

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS

BROKEN.

ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be,

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain? Have years of care for thine and thee Alike been all employ'd in vain? Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee feels thou art A fitter emblem of his own.

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.* WEEP, daughter of a royal line,

A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah happy if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tearsAuspicious to these suffering isles: And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles,

The Princess Charlotte,

THE CHAIN I GAVE,

FROM THE TURKISH.

THE cham I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
Theart that offer'd both was true,

And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine:
And they have done their duty well,-
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such. Let him who from thy neck unbound

The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Re-string the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too: The chain is broke, the music mute. "Tis past-to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRULY LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and mourn'd,

Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven,

Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven:
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,
While thousands, throng'd around the burning
dome,

Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home,

As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you? Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spellIndulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest
heart.

On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu :
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom,

That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse, With garlands deck your own Menander's head,* Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,

Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write.
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo'
glass

To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line,
Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays

Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject:
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forebore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause:
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echoed back by ours!

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.

The curtain rises-may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,
Still may we please-long, long may you pre-

side.

VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT HALES-OWEN,

WHEN Dryden's fool,† "unknowing what he sought,"

His hours in whistling spent, "for want of This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense thought," Supplied, and amply too, by innocence. Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers,

In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, Th offended guests would not, with blushing,

see

These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!
When vice and folly mark them as they pass
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall,
The filth they leave still points out where the
crawl.

REMEMBER THEE! REMEMBER THEE!
REMEMBER thee! remember thee!

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream,
Sheridan,

† See Dryden's "Cymon and Iphigenia.

Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream!
Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not,
Thy husband too shall think of thee:
By neither shalt thou be forgot,
Thou false to him, thou fiend to me.

TO TIME.

TIME! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die-
Hail thou! who on my birth bestow'd

Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load,

For now I bear the weight alone.

I would not one fond heart should share
The bitter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or heaven.
To them be joy or rest, on me

Thy future ills shall press in vain :
I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.
Yet even that pain was some relief,

It felt, but still forgot thy power:
The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,

But could not add a night to woe;
For them, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
Το prove thee-not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk, and now thou art
A blank; a thing to count and curse,
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform;
The limit of thy sloth or speed,
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed:
And I can smile to think how weak

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown,
When all the vengeance thou canst wreak
Must fall upon-a nameless stone.
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE
SONG.

AH! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.
Without one friend to hear my woe,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That love had arrows well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison'd too.
Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire
A bird of free and careless wing
Was I, through many a smiling spring;

But caught within the subtle snare,
I burn, and bly flutter there.
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,

The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.
My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip and alter'd eye?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate!

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain,
In silent anguish I sustain ;

And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults-while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe.

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU
ART FICKLE.

THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises,

And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet,-
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy and wake to sorrow,
Is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,
What must they feel whom no false vision,
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition;

As if a dream alone had charm'd?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming!

And shouldst thou seek his end to know: My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He'il linger long in silent woe:

But live-until I cease to be.

REMEMBER HIM WHOM PASSION'S

POWER.

REMEMBER him whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour,

When neither fell, though both were loved. That yielding breast, that melting eye,

Too much invited to be bless'd;
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repress'd.
Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name. Think that, whate'er to others, thou

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: I bless thy purer soul even now, Even now, in midnight solitude.

Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee ! Far may thy days, as heretofore, From this our gaudy world be past! And that too bitter moment o'er,

Oh! may such trial be thy last. This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might thee destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall. Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath pass'd, may guess What there thy bosom must endure. Oh! pardon that imploring tear, Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; For me they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.

Still, had I loved thee less,

y heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine; It felt not half so much to part As if its guilt had made thee mine.

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.
WHEN, from the heart where sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;

woe,

And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow: And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes-but, oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; At once such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 66 TU MI CHAMAS." IN moments to delight devoted,

"My life!" with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words! on which my heart had doted, If youth could neither fade nor die. To death even hours like these must roll, Ah! then repeat those accents never: Or change" my life!" into "my soul!" Which, like my love, exists for ever.

ANOTHER VERSION.

You call me still your life.-Oh! change the word

Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh: Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name, For, like the soul, my love can never die.

WINDSOR POETICS. LINES COMPOSED ON THE OCCASION OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT BEING SEEN STANDING BETWEEN THE COFFINS OF HENRY VIII. AND CHARLES I. IN THE ROYAL VAULT AT WINDSOR.

FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;

We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain,

We will part, we will fly to-unite it again! Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! Forgive me, adored one !-forsake, if thou wilt; But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,

And man shall not break it-whatever thou may'st.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be; And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,

With thee by my side, than with worlds at my feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; And the heartless may wonder at all I resignThy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

To us bequeath-'tis all their fate allows--
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze;
Or view, while shadowy augur.es disclose,
The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form,
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;
While sad she chants the solitary song,
The soft lament for him who tarries long-
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The cronach's wild requiem to the brave!
'Tis heaven-not man-must charın away the
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly
flow,

woe,

Of half its bitterness, for one so dear;
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thornless pillow for the widow's head;
May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits,
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart,
Could with thy gentle image bear depart;
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts,
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose?
A garden with all flowers-except the rose ;-
A fount that only wants its living stream;
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam.
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee:
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause,
Than all he shall not force on our applause.

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine: The symmetry of youth, the grace of mien, The eye that gladdens, and the brow serene; The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair!