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 poesie." Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne, par C. FAURIEL.] A WAIL was heard around the bed, the deathbed 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, seeking 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 Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not for thee! I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high; 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. its last adieu? What now can breathe of gladness more,-what scene, what hour, what tone? The blue skies fade with all their lights; they fade, since thou art gone! Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved: "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!" GREEK 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 sounding waters, first in childhood's heart Fostering its young faint flowers! Yet had he friends, And they went forth to cheer him on his way "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 Forgive me that thou couldst not love !—it may 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 smilest, 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 even the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung, We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that When mine is a forgotten voice. Woods, moun- "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, 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!" "Farewell!”—the echo died with that deep word; THE SULIOTE MOTHER. [It is related, in a French life of Ali Pasha, that several of the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into the mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with their children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves of the enemy.] SHE stood upon the loftiest peak, "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? There lay a hidden fount of love that would have My babe, that I cradled on my breast! 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. [joy? Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with For in the rocky strait beneath, Lay Suliote sire and son: They had heap'd high the piles of death "They have cross'd the torrent, and on they come: Woe for the mountain hearth and home! |