The Works of Lord Byron, Volume 3 | Page 9

_Athens, January_, 1811.
[First published, _Childe
Harold_, 1812 (4to).]
TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONG,

[Greek: "Deu~te pai~des tô~n E(llê/nôn."][16]
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!
Hellénes 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[17] 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
Thermopylæ,
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/nô mes' to\ peribo/li,]
[Greek: Ô(raiota/tê Chaêdê/,"
k.t.l.][18]
I enter thy garden of roses,
Belovéd and fair Haidée,
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 Haidée.
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,
Belovéd but false Haidée!
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).]
FAREWELL TO MALTA.[19]
Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, Sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu,
thou palace rarely entered!
Adieu, ye mansions where--I've ventured!

Adieu, ye curséd streets of stairs![20]
(How surely he who mounts
them swears!)
Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob
for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets--without letters!
Adieu, ye
fools--who ape your