"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! ANCIENT GREEK SONG OF EXILE. WHERE is the summer, with her golden sun?— For me alone the laughing day is done! Where is the summer with her voice of mirth ?— Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves ?— Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining, Where are the vineyards, with their joyous throngs, Where the deep haunted grots, the laurel bowers, 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 And this was what he left !-Yet many leave Yet had he friends, And they went forth to cheer him on his way The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze "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, The hour the mother loves!—for me beloved it hath not been ; "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, "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! "Farewell!"-the echo died with that deep word, By the strain quicken'd in the mother's breast! On the glad bosom of her child, and cried, 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 chasın 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, "Dost thou see them, boy?-through the dusky pines Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's crest? Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy?—- 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, And now the horn's loud blast was heard, Till ev'n the upper air was stirr'd, "Hark! they bring music, my joyous child! 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, "Hear'st thou the sound of their savage mirth ?— And from the arrowy peak she sprung, And fast the fair child bore: A veil upon the wind was flung, |