CHORUS.
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ons of Greeks! let us goIn arms against the foe,Till their hated blood shall flowIn a river past our feet. Then manfully despisingThe 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, breakingYour 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 slumbersLethargic dost thou lie?Awake, and join thy numbersWith Athens, old ally!Leonidas recalling,That chief of ancient song,Who saved ye once from falling,The terrible! the strong!Who made that bold diversionIn old Thermopylae,And warring with the PersianTo keep his country free;With his three hundred wagingThe 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.][18] 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 hatefulWhen 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 theeMy 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 advancesSecure 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 perishBy 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).]
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