Lines Written Beneath A Picture.[15]

1.

Dear object of defeated care! Though now of Love and thee bereft, To reconcile me with despair Thine image and my tears are left.

2.

'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope; But this I feel can ne'er be true: For by the death-blow of my Hope My Memory immortal grew.

Athens, January, 1811. [First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]

TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG, [Greek: "Deu~te pai~des to~n E(lle/non."]

Sons of the Greeks, arise! The glorious hour's gone forth, And, worthy of such ties, Display who gave us birth.

CHORUS.

Sons of Greeks! let us go In arms against the foe, Till their hated blood shall flow In a river past our feet.

Then manfully despising The Turkish tyrant's yoke, Let your country see you rising, And all her chains are broke. Brave shades of chiefs and sages, Behold the coming strife! Hellenes of past ages, Oh, start again to life! At the sound of my trumpet, breaking Your sleep, oh, join with me! And the seven-hilled city seeking, Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, etc.

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers Lethargic dost thou lie? Awake, and join thy numbers With Athens, old ally! Leonidas recalling, That chief of ancient song, Who saved ye once from falling, The terrible! the strong! Who made that bold diversion In old Thermopylae, And warring with the Persian To keep his country free; With his three hundred waging The battle, long he stood, And like a lion raging, Expired in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, etc.

[First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,

[Greek: "Mpe/no mes' to\ peribo/li,] [Greek: O(raiota/te Chaede/," k.t.l.]

I enter thy garden of roses, Beloved and fair Haidee, Each morning where Flora reposes, For surely I see her in thee. Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee, Receive this fond truth from my tongue, Which utters its song to adore thee, Yet trembles for what it has sung; As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidee.

But the loveliest garden grows hateful When Love has abandoned the bowers; Bring me hemlock--since mine is ungrateful, That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The poison, when poured from the chalice, Will deeply embitter the bowl; But when drunk to escape from thy malice, The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Too cruel! in vain I implore thee My heart from these horrors to save: Will nought to my bosom restore thee? Then open the gates of the grave.

As the chief who to combat advances Secure of his conquest before, Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, Hast pierced through my heart to its core. Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidee! There Flora all withered reposes, And mourns o'er thine absence with me.

1811. [First published, Childe Harold, 1812 (4to).]

ON PARTING.

1.

The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift Untainted back to thine.

2.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see:[o] The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.

3.

I ask no pledge to make me blest In gazing when alone;[p] Nor one memorial for a breast, Whose thoughts are all thine own.

4.

Nor need I write--to tell the tale My pen were doubly weak: Oh! what can idle words avail,[q] Unless the heart could speak?

5.

By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannot show, And silent ache for thee.

March, 1811. [First published, Childe Harold, 1812(4to).]