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Os the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bathurst) was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam from the European shore to the Asiatic -by-the-bye, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. The whole distance from the place whence we started to our landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was computed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles; though the actual breadth is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across, and it may in some measure be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold from the melting of the mountain-snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt, but having ridden all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an icy chillness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate anchored below the castles, aben we swam the straits, as just stated, entering a considerable way above the European, and landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier says that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress; and Oliver mentions it having been done by a Neapolitan; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circumstances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's story, no traveller bad ever endeavoured to ascertain its practicability.

1 Zoë mou, sas agapo, or Zán μsũ, ois ág, a Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it I shall affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I supposed they could not; and if I do not, I may affrout the ladies. For fear of any misconstruction on the part of the latter I shall do so, begging pardon of the learned. It means, My life, I love you' which sourds very prettily in all languages, and is as much in fashion in Greece at this day as, Juvenal tells us, the two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose exotic expressions were all Hellenized.

By those tresses unconfined,
Woo'd by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge,
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.

By that lip I long to taste;

By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well,
By love's alternate joy and woe,
Ζώη μοῦ, σὰς ἀγαπῶ.

Maid of Athens! I am gone:

Think of me, sweet! when alone.--
Though I fly to Istambol,2
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!

Ζώκ μοῦ, τὰς ἀγαπῶ.



Δεῦτε παῖδες τῶν ̔Ελλήνων,

Written by Riga, who perished in the attempt to revolutionize Greece. The following translation is as literal as the author could make vi inn verse; it is of the same measure as that of the original

SONS of the Greeks, arise!

The glorious hour's gone forth,

And, worthy of such ties,
Display who gave us birth.


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! Hellenes 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 d3 city seeking,

Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, ch

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers

Lethargic dost thou lie! Awake, and join thy numbers With Athens, old ay!

In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, loos cher ab scribble assignations) flowers, cinders, pebbles, etc cvey the g ments of the parties by that universal depary of Mer woman. A cinder says, I burn for thee,• a hunch 2, with bair, Take me and dy; but a pelible declares-alat ya else can.

* Constantinople.

1 Constantinople. "Ertaλoqoc.»

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Μπενω μες το περιβολι
Ωραίοτατη Χαηδή,» etc.

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. I have heard it frequently at our «Xopol in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,

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Beloved and fair Haideé,
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 Haideé.

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 Haideé! There Flora all wither'd reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me.

ON PARTING. Tar 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.


WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,
And say,
what truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Ah, wherefore art thou lowly laid?
By many a shore and many a sea

Divided, yet beloved in vain;
The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! Could this have been-a word, a look

That softly said, « We part in peace,»> Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since death for thee Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart? Oh! who like him had watch 'd thee here? Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, In that dread hour ere death appear, When silent sorrow fears to sigh, Till all was past? But when no more

'T was thine to reck of human woe, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow.
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?
Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand;
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss so guiltless and refined

That love each warmer wish forbore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,

Even passion blush'd to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice, When prone, unlike thee, to repine; The song celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine;

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But where is thine?-ah, where art thou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again;
But if in worlds more blest than this

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me too early taught by thee!

To bear, forgiving and forgiven: On earth thy love was such to me, It fain would form my hope in heaven!


AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence, for, oh! I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter daysBut lull the chords, for now, a alas! I must not think, I may not gaze On what I am, on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;

And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart!

"T is silent all!-but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still; Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake: Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake To listen, though the dream be flown.

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he, who through life's dreary way Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray]

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.


ONE struggle more, and I am free
From pang that rends my heart in twain,
One last long sigh to love and thee,
Then back to busy life again.

It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form'd to live alone:
I'll be that light unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou
Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou 'rt nothing, all are nothing now.

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night

It soothed to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye; And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,

When sailing o'er the Egean wave, «Now Thyrza gazes on that moon->> Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins,
<< "T is comfort still,» I faintly said,

<<That Thyrza cannot know my pains
Like freedom to the time-worn slave,
A boon 't is idle then to give,
Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new!
How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue!
The heart that gave itself with thee

Is silent-ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,
Or break the heart to which thou 'rt prest!
Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallow'd when its hope is fled :
Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead?


WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion may thy languid wing

Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

But silent let me sink to earth,

With no officious mourners near : I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a fear.

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives and him who dies.

'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee.

But vain the wish-for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret, without a groan!

For thousands death hath ceased to lower, And pain been transient or unknown.

« Ay, but to die, and go,» alas! Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe!

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
T is something better not to be.


.Heu quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!

AND thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Teo soon return'd to earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon
the spot;

There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I loved, and long must love,

Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
T is nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

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