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"I come with flowers-for Spring is come!-Ianthis! art thou here? I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier! Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's crown-but oh! more meet

they seem,

The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream!
More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low-
Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's glow :
The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send,-
Woe! that it smiles, and not for thee !-my brother and my friend!"

ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE.

WHERE is the summer, with her golden sun?—
That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth:

For me alone the laughing day is done!

Where is the summer with her voice of mirth ?—
Far in my own bright land!

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die
On the green hills ?- the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?

The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves?—
Far in my own bright land!

Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin-dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes ?—
Far in my own bright land!

Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs,
The red grapes pressing when the foliage fades?
The lyres, the wreaths, the lovely Dorian songs,
And the pine forests, and the olive shades?—
Far in my own bright land!

Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers,
The Dryad's footsteps, and the minstrel's dreams?
Oh that my life were as a southern flower's!
I might not languish then by these chill streams,
Far from my own bright land!

1

THE 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
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasured, and most oft recall'd,
And brightest kept, of love;-a mountain home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half unconscious prayer ;-a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.

And this was what he left!-Yet many leave
Far more :-the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call'd out the soul's bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection's tones.-He left not these.
Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother's love !-A bitterer grief
Was his-To part unloved !—of her unloved,
That should have breathed upon his heart, like spring
Fostering its young faint flowers!

Yet had he friends,

And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot ;-and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.
The parting spot was reach'd :—a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore, for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows.-Upon a rock he sprung,

The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern, proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.

"Farewell, farewell!

"I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!—thou'rt from my native dell, Thou'rt bearing thence a mournful sound—a murmur of farewell! And fare thee well-flow on, my stream!-flow on, thou bright and free!

I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me;
But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving years,
And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears;
The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have
known:

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 smil'st, 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 ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung,
We pass with softer step the place they fill'd 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, fare-
well!

"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 seem'd to be. There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gush'd for thee!

Brightly it would have gush'd, 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 .hat thou couldst not love!—it may be, that a tone Yet 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!
Might but my spirit then return, and 'midst its kindred dwell,
And quench its thirst with love's free tears!-'Tis all a dream-
farewell !"

66

Farewell!"-the echo died with that deep word,
Yet died not so the late repentant pang

By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast!
There had pass'd many changes o'er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried,
"Return, return, my son !"-The echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring-" Return, my son !"-

THE SULIOTE MOTHER.

It is related, in a French Life of Ali Pacha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into their mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with their children, into the chasin 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,
And a dark flash in her eye.

"Dost thou see them, boy?-through the dusky pines
Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines?

Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest?
My babe, that I cradled on my breast,

Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy ?—-
That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!"

For in the rocky strait beneath,

Lay Suliote sire and son;

They had heap'd high the piles of death
Before the pass was won.

"They have cross'd the torrent, and on they come !
Woe for the mountain hearth and home!
There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep,
Nought but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!"

And now the horn's loud blast was heard,
And now the cymbal's clang,

Till ev'n the upper air was stirr'd,
As cliff and hollow rang.

"Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild!

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,
And louder swell'd the horn,
And farther yet the tambour's peal
Through the dark pass was borne.

"Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth ?—
Boy! thou wert free when I gave thee birth,—
Free, and how cherish'd, my warrior's son !
He too hath bless'd thee, as I have done!
Ay, and unchain'd must his loved ones be-
Freedom, young Suliote! for thee and me!”

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