When banners caught the breeze,
When helms in sunlight shone,
When masts were on the seas,
And spears on Marathon.

Far sweeping through the foe,
With a fiery charge he bore;
And the Mede left many a bow
On the sounding ocean-shore.
And the foaming waves grew red,
And the sails were crowded fast,
When the sons of Asia fled,

As the Shade of Theseus pass'd!

When banners caught the breeze,

When helms in sunlight shone,

When masts were on the seas,

And spears on Marathon.

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 céremorie nuptiale, avec cette difference, qu'elles gardent la tête nue, les chevaux épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deueil; 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 succédent 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 lov'd 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 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?