VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES

THE night winds howled-the billows dashed

Against the tossing chest ;

And Danäe to her broken heart

Her slumbering infant pressed.

My little child-in tears she said—
To wake and weep is mine,

But thou canst sleep-thou dost not know

Thy mother's lot, and thine.

The moon is up, the moonbeams smile—

They tremble on the main ;
But dark, within my floating cell,

To me they smile in vain.

Thy folded mantle wraps

чела

thee warm,

Thy clustering locks are dry,

Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust,

Nor breakers booming high.

As o'er thy sweet unconscious face
A mournful watch I keep,

I think, didst thou but know thy fate,
How thou wouldst also weep.

96

VERSION OF A FRAGMENT.

Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds

That vex the restless brine

When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed
As peacefully as thine.

THE GREEK PARTISAN.

OUR free flag is dancing

In the free mountain air,
And burnished arms are glancing,
And warriors gathering there;
And fearless is the little train

Whose gallant bosoms shield it;

The blood that warms their hearts shall stain
That banner, ere they yield it.
-Each dark eye is fixed on earth,

And brief each solemn greeting;
There is no look nor sound of mirth,
Where those stern men are meeting.

They go to the slaughter,

To strike the sudden blow,
And pour on earth, like water,

The best blood of the foe;
To rush on them from rock and height,
And clear the narrow valley,

Or fire their camp at dead of night,
And fly before they rally.

98

THE GREEK PARTISAN.

-Chains are round our country pressed,
And cowards have betrayed her,

And we must make her bleeding breast
The grave of the invader.

Not till from her fetters

We raise up Greece again,
And write, in bloody letters,
That tyranny is slain,-

Oh, not till then the smile shall steal
Across those darkened faces,
Nor one of all those warriors feel
His children's dear embraces.
-Reap we not the ripened wheat,
Till yonder hosts are flying,
And all their bravest, at our feet,

Like autumn sheaves are lying.

ROMERO.

WHEN freedom, from the land of Spain, By Spain's degenerate sons was driven, Who gave their willing limbs again

To wear the chain so lately riven; Romero broke the sword he wore

Go, faithful brand, the warrior said,

Go, undishonoured, never more

The blood of man shall make thee red;
I grieve for that already shed;
And I am sick at heart to know,
That faithful friend and noble foe
Have only bled to make more strong
The yoke that Spain has worn so long.
Wear it who will, in abject fear-

I wear it not who have been free;
The perjured Ferdinand shall hear
No oath of loyalty from me.
Then, hunted by the hounds of power,
Romero chose a safe retreat,

Where bleak Nevada's summits tower

Above the beauty at their feet.

There once, when on his cabin lay

The crimson light of setting day,