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With his three hundred waging
The battle, long he stood, And like a lion raging,
Expired in seas of blood.
Sons of Greeks, &c. IX.
Translation of the Romaic Song,
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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 “xéfo” in the winter of 1810-11. The air is plaintive and pretty.
I ENTER thy garden of roses,
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
But the loveliest garden grows hateful
When Love has abandoned the bowers;
Bring me hemloek-since mine is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when poured 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,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core. Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish