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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 !


· 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 sæurs, 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 appréts 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


_" 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 at 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 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. -Why doth a mother live to say—my first-born and my

dead? They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory


-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 “ Ianthis! look'st thou not on me?-Can love indeed

be fled?

When was it woe before to gaze upon thy stately head ?

I would that I had follow'd thee, Ianthis, my beloved !
And stood as woman oft hath stood where faithful hearts

are proved! That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy

side-It would have been a blessed thing together had we

died !

“But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal

sword? Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful

board ? Or singing some sweet song of old, in the shadow of the

vine, Or praying to the saints for thee, before the holy shrine ? And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy

heart Fast gushing like a mountain-spring !-and couldst thou

thus depart? Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting

breath ? -Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been

in death!

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