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!

GREEK FUNERAL CHANT OR MYRIOLOGUE.

"Les Chants Funèbres par lesquels on déplore en Grèce la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriologia, comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vient-il de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mère, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont là, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en épanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel et sa mesure de tendresse pour le défunt, la douleur qu'elle ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. Là elles changent de vêtemens, s'habillent de blanc, comme pour la cérémonie nuptiale, avec cette différence, qu'elles gardent la tête nue, les cheveux épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en circle autour du mort, et leur douleur s'exhale de nouveau, et, comme la première fois, sans règle et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontanées succèdent bientôt des lamentations d'une autre espèce: ce sont les Myriologues. Ordinairement c'est la plus proche parente qui prononce le sien la première; après elle les autres parentes, les amies, les simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composés et chantés par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvisés, toujours en vers, et toujours chantés sur un air qui diffère d'un lieu à un autre, mais qui, dans

un lieu donné, reste invariablement consacré à ce genre de poësie."

Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne, par C. Fauriel.

A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young,

Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung.

"Ianthis! dost thou sleep?-Thou sleep'st !-but this is not the rest,

The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow'd on my breast!

I lull'd thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet

son!

As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I have

done!

-How is it that I bear to stand and look upon thee

now?

And that I die not, seeing death on thy pale glorious brow?

"I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave!

I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave!

Though mournfully thy smile is fix'd, and heavily thine eye

Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to

lie!

And fast is bound the springing step, that seem'd on breezes borne,

When to thy couch I came and said,― Wake, hunter, wake! 'tis morn!'

Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch'd by slow decay,

-And I, the wither'd stem, remain-I would that grief might slay!

"Oh! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this would be!

I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee!

I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing

A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die!

That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red.—

-Why doth a mother live to say-my first-born and my dead?

They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory won

-Speak thou, and I will hear! my child, Ianthis! my sweet son!"

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of

the young,

A fair-hair'd bride the Funeral Chant amidst her

weeping sung.