may come to tell me of the return of Spring, and the nightingale sing to me in the sweet month of May."

The following wish is in the same spirit of longing after Nature :


Uprisen am I early, two hours ere morning shine,
And I hear the shiver of the beech, the murmur of the pine :
The Klephts are wailing for their chief_"O rise, lotis, rise,
Steep not so soundly when the foe hath sought us to surprise."
* What shall I say, my children, unfortunate and brave?
Smart is the ball, and deadly is the wound the foemen gave.
But take me, take me by the hand, and lift me up awhile,
And bring me wine, that I may drink, and all my pains beguile.
And I'll sing a low and plaintive song-a song to make one weep:

O were I on the lofty hills, amid the foliage deep!
Where the little lambs feed far away from the wild rams and the sheep !"

We have spoken of the dramatic effect of some of these ballads : here are two of them which will justify, we think, what we have ventured to say upon the subject. The first is particularly interesting, as relating an adventure of Spyros Skyllodemos, a Greek chief, who in 1806 was taken prisoner by Ali Pacha, and escaped as recorded in the ballad : in the last will be found an allusion to Charon, which will shew the character under which he is regarded by the Modern Greeks :

Skyllodemos sat beneath the firs,

And Irene at his side,
"And pour to me the blood-red wine,

O maiden fair," he cried,
“ That I may drink till the morning star

Doth shew his paly fire;
And ten warriors shall guard thee to thine abode

When the Pleiads shall retire.”
“ Am I thy slave, () Demos,

To serve thee with the red wine?
I am the wife of a chieftain bold,

And I come of an Archon's line."
At dawn of day pass'd along that way

Two weary travelling men,
"Their beards were long, and their faces were dark,

And they stood near Demos then.
“ Good morrow, Skyllodemos," they said:

Then up spake Skyllodeme,
“ Ye are welcome, welcome, voyagers,

But how do ye know my name?”.
“ We bring thee thy brother's greetings,” they said ;

“ Where have ye seen my brother?”
“ We have seen him in Iannina's dungeon, a eh iin

At his hands, at his feet another.”
Skyllodemos wept loud, and he started up;~

“Where flyest thou, son of my mother?
Where fyesi thou, chief? Look at me again-

Come and embrace thy brother!”.
Then Demos knew him, and wistfully

All in his arms he clips :
And they kiss'd each other tenderly

On the eyes and on the lips.

“Sit down, my brother," then Demos said,

" And tell us how it befel
That thou saved thee from the wild Albanese,

And from thy prison-cell ?"
“ In the night I loosed my hands and my feet,

And I burst my prison door;
And I leapt into the reedy marsh,

Where I lay till day was o'er.
Then I seized a boat which lay on the lake,

And I cross'd it over to thee :
Last night lay lannina far behind,
Now I'm on the hills, and free!"

A fair-haired maiden boasted

She did not Charon fear,
Because she had nine brave brothers

That loved their sister dear;
And she had bold Constantine

Who for her love did sigh-
He who had many broad lands,

And withal four castles high.
But Charon came, like a raven,

And slew the beauteous bride :
“O thou hast slain my daughter!"

The woful mother cried,
There are steps upon the mountains,

And music in the glen :
'Tis her beloved Constantine,

With twice two hundred men.
His heart is joyous with the sounds--

But, alas, it grieved him sore,
When suddenly he sees a cross

Issue from his bride's door.
Then with a sad foreboding heart

He spurred his black steed on,
Until he came to the church where they

Were placing a funeral-stone.
“Oh, tell me, tell me, architect,

Who in that tomb must lie?"
“ It is a fair-haired maiden,

Who had a soft black eye ;
And she had nine brave brethren,

Who caused her mickle pride ;
And she had bold Constantine

Who woo'd her for his bride-
He who hath many broad lands,

And four castles tall beside.”
“O build the tomb then, architect,

And build it broad and deep;
And build it large and high withal,

That two therein may sleep.”.
Then out he drew a golden blade,
And he smote him

in the side ;
He fell into the open tomb,

And he sleeps there with his bride.

This Ballad is not to be found in the volume of the Greek Songs just published : we translate it from a collection in the possession of M. Buchon, one of the editors of the Constitutionnel. In noticing this, we take the opportunity of saying, that we VOL. XI. NO, XLIV.


We have hinted a resemblance between the manners of the Greek mountaineers and the outlaws of Scotland : there is, at all events, the same generosity and gallantry in the actions and sentiments recorded of all these gentlemen. A priest of St. Peter's, who has been wronged by one of the Klephtic chiefs, very naturally complains; and the warrior thus justifies himself.

“ What have I done to him that he should complain of me? Have I slain bis sheep, or his oxen? I kissed his son's wife, and his two daughters: I slew one of his, sons, and took another prisoner, for whose ransom I demanded five hundred and two pieces of gold: but I gave all these to my soldiers, and kept not one broad piece for myself.”

This is “ the lesson of Nannos”—a great moral lesson!

“Set we upon the house of the lady Nikolo, who hath many broad pieces and much plate: • Welcome is Nannos,' shall she say, 'and welcome are his bold warriors!' And the soldiers shall have the gold pieces, and the youths the paras—as for me, I seek the dame !"

There are few recollections of Ancient Greece in this volume : here is one piece, however, which shews that Olympus is still a sacred Inountain :

Olympus and Kissavos, those hills of ancient fame,
Dispute together wildly which hath the greatest name;
Then spake the proud Olympus—" Let our dispute be done !
Kissavos, whom the Turkish foot hath ever trampled on!
I am that old Olympus, renown'd throughout the world,
My peaks are forty-two-on each a banner is unfurlid;
My springs are seventy-two- each bough upon me hath its Klepht,
Nor is my topmost summit of its lordly eagle rest:
He holds wiihin his claw the head of some brave fallen Greek-
O head, what hast thou done that thou should'st be thus treated ? Speak!
• Eat, bird,' thus spake the head, and feast thyself my youth upon,
And drink my courage with my life, which is in battle gone :
So shall thy wing spread broad and vast, and strong shall be thy claws:

At Louros and Xeromeros I was Armatolos.
Twelve years have 1 a Klepht been ainong Olympus' trees—
And sixty Agas have I slain, and burned their villages :
As for the others I have kill'd-of Turks or Albanese,
Too numerous are they, Eagle! I cannot count them all !
But now my day is also come amid the fight to fall.!”

The following expresses, along with the national hatred to the Turks, that dread of dishonour even after death which we have mentioned as distinguishing the insurgent Greeks :

The hills thirst for snow, and the valleys for water,
The hawks for young birds, and the Othnians for slaughter.

-“ Where wanders in weeping young Gyphtakis' mother,
All wildly lamenting her children and brother?

have heard M. Buchon named as the French translator of these songs ; though M. Fauriel, doubtless from oversight, has omitted to 'do that accomplished person the justice of noticing his labours in his preface or introduction.

* Gyphtakis signifies the young gipsy, and was the surname of a Klephtic chief of dark complexion, killed in battle against the Arab Isouph, one of the generals of Ali Pacha.

No more is she seen by the mountains, and valleys.”
_" Even now from the huts of the shepherds she sallies”.
There loud roar'd the voice of the echoing gun,
But it was not to tell that a bride had been won,
Nor to shout that the feast of the vale had begun.
-Gyphtakis hath a ball in his hand and his knee-
He trembles-he falls like a dark cypress tree!
But loudly he cried ere he fell—“O my brother,
Where art thou? Return to the son of thy mother!-
Save my life or my head from the Arab's wild paw,

Lest he snatch it, and bear it to Ali Pacha!" The courage and patriotism of women sometimes figure in the Greek ballads :

“ The Albanians have attacked Despo in her tower of Dimoulas :" “Wife of George, yield up thine arms!"_" Despo never had, and never will have the Liapides for lords !”_She seizes a burning brand, and calls loudly to her daughters: “Let us not be the slaves of the Turks, my children--follow me!” She fired the gunpowder, and they all vanished in the blaze."

The numbers of the Turks who fall are always recounted with exaggeration, to contrast with the boldness and the fortune of their enemies.


“What is the uproar which I hear? What is that terrible sound? Are they slaying oxen? Or are the wild beasts combating ?-They are not slaying oxen-nor are the wild beasts combating : Boukovallas fights against fifteen hundred, between Kenouria and the Kerassovon. The shots fall like rain, and the balls like hail.–And a fair-haired maiden cries from her casement: 'Stay the fight, O Boukovallas, and stop the firing : let the dust fall, and the vapour disperse, and then we will count thine army, to see how many are missing.' The Turks have counted thrice: they have lost five hundred men. The children of the Klephts have counted: there are wanting but three warriors. The first is gone for bread, the second for water, the third, the bravest of the three, is stretched dead his gun.'

Sometimes the Grecian abhorrence of the Turkish tyrants assumes the air of contempt; as in the following ballad, which is, in our opinion, of singular elegance and beauty:



O were I a bird, I would fly, I would journey through the air; I would look towards the land of the Franks, towards the melancholy Ithaca: I would listen to the wife of Kaliakoudas, as she wails and laments, and


forth her bitter tears. She mourns like the partridge, and tears her hair as the stork her feathers; and she wears a sable vestment, black as the crow's wing; and she gazes from her casement upon the sea; and of every vessel which passes by, she asks—'Oye little barks, ye ships, and gilded brigantines, as ye went to the melancholy Valtos, or as ye came therefrom- have not ye seen my spouse? have not ye seen Kaliakoudas ?'- We left him yesterday beyond Gavrolimi. They had lambs which they were roasting, and sheep upon the spit; and to turn the spit, they had five Beys.'"

We here close our account of this very interesting publication; for the second volume of which we look with the greatest impatience. We have been anxious to notice it as early as possible; and perhaps our anxiety to “do this quickly," has prevented us from “ doing it well." We take this opportunity also of expressing our acknowledgments to M. Fauriel for the delightful present he has made us : and of congratulating him upon being the first to lay before us the popular poetry of Modern Greece. By embodying in an imperishable form these snatches of songs, he has rendered a lasting service to the cause of the Greeks, and has vindicated the genius, as well as the patriotism, of the people for whom BYRON lived and died.



A Swiss Tradition. The three founders of the Helvetic Confederacy are thought to sleep in a cavern near the Lake of Lucerne. The herdsmen call them the Three Tells, and say that they lie there in their antique garb, in quiet slumber; and when Switzerland is in ber utmost need, they will awaken and regain the liberties of the land. See Quarterly Review, No. 44.

Oh! enter not yon shadowy cave,

Seek not the bright spars there,
Though the whispering pines, that o'er it wave,
With freshness fill the air,
For there the patriot-three,

In the garb of old array'd,
By their native forest-sea *

On a rocky couch are laid.
The patriot-three that met of yore,

Beneath the midnight sky,
And leagued their hearts on the Grülli shore t
In the name of Liberty !
Now silently they sleep

Amidst the hills they freed,
But their rest is only deep

Till their country's hour of need.
They start not at the hunter's call,

Nor the Lammer-geyer's cry,
Nor the rush of a sudden torrent's fall,
Nor the Lauwine thundering by!
And the Alpine herdsman's lay,

To a Switzer's heart so dear,
On the wild wind floats away,

No more for them to hear.
But when the battle-horn is blown

Till the Schreckhorn's peaks reply,
When the Jungfrau's cliffs send back the tone
Through their eagles' lonely sky;
When spear-heads light the lakes,

When trumpets loose the snows,
When the rushing war-steed shakes

The glacier's mute repose :
When Uri's beechen-woods wave red

In the burning hamlet's light,
Then from the cavern of the dead,

Shall the Sleepers wake in might!

Forest-sea, the Lake of Lucerne, or Lake of the Forest-towns, as the German name implies.

+ The Grütli, a meadow on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne, where the founders of the Helvetic Confederacy held their meetings.

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