"And what wouldst see among us now, in our unhappy country? Dost thou not know what has befallen, how fares it in Morea?" Georgakēs mine, be not cast down, nor lose thy manly courage, If the Morea wars not now, the time again is coming

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When they will fight like savage beasts, and chase away the foemen,
And blackened bones be strewn around the walls of Mesolongi,
And Souli's lions prowling there, shall seize his prey exulting."
And then the bird resumed his flight, and mounted up to heaven.

You will notice that I have been driven by stress of rhythm to accent the name of the hero on the second syllable. The Greeks pronounce it Tsma

dós.

The mountain Klephts looked with dislike on the passion of love when their hard-earned coins were taken to adorn the Captain's beloved. The following ballad shows how they dealt with the complaint:

THE CAPTAIN IN LOVE.

"Conduct thee wisely, Nicholas, as well becomes a captain, Nor with thy children be at strife, nor venture to insult them; For they an evil plot have laid, resolving they will slay thee." "Who cares for what the boys may say, who heeds their foolish

stories?

Well! when the blooming spring shall come, and when shall come

the summer,

To Xerolibada I go, and to our ancient quarters,

Thither I go to wed my love, to take a fair-haired maiden,

With golden coins I'll deck my love, with strings of pearls adorn

her."

The Pallicars, they heard his words, and scornful was their anger, Three shots they gave him all at once, and all the three were fatal. "Down with the weakling fool," they cried, "shoot down the worthless wanton,

From us he took the golden coins, to win the fair-haired maiden, Our fair-haired maid the pistol is, the sabre is our mistress."

Another and a more unusual death scene of a Klepht is described in the following ballad. Generally these mountain warriors died—as they wished to do by the bullet. Their favorite toast, at the Klephtic feasts, was xa2ò pohvßi-welcome the lead. The hero of this poem seems to have lived to old age, and to have died, not exactly in bed, for they had no beds, but on a heap of green branches. It is an exquisitely characteristic compound of piety, power, and sensibility to the charms of nature. The dying hero is determined, even after death, to have a shot now and then at his old enemies the Turks. The surrounding circumstances are very naturally conceived.

THE DYING CHIEF.

The sun was setting in the west, when Demos gave his orders:

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Hasten, my children, to the brook, to eat your bread at evening, And thou, Lamprakēs, nephew mine, come take thy seat before me; Here! wear the arms that now I wear, and be a valiant captain, And ye, my children, take my sword, deserted by its master,

And cut green branches from the trees, and spread a couch to rest

me,

And hither bring the holy man, that he may haste to shrive me,
That I may tell him all the sins I ever have committed
While thirty years an Armatole, and twenty-five a robber.
But now the conqueror Death has come, and I for death am ready.
Build me a broad and spacious tomb, and let the mound be lofty,
That I may stand erect and fire, then stoop and load the musket;
And on the right hand of the tomb, a window leave wide open,
That swallows, in their flight may come, the early spring announc-

ing,

And nightingales, of lovely May, in morning song may tell me.”

I must take you now up the lofty heights of Olympus, the seat of the Homeric Gods. I had the pleasure

of hearing the following ballad sung by a dozen wild looking mountaineers, at Thermopylæ. The leader of the band, a red-haired (§avòs Mevέhaos) and sturdy fellow named Basil, showed the most extraordinary excitement. On inquiring the reason, the Greek friend with whom I was staying, informed me that Basil - now a hard-working, honest man - had been a Klepht for ten years on Mt. Olympus. The persons in the rapid dialogue are the Poet, Olympus and Kissavos (the ancient Oeta), an Eagle, and the Head of a slain warrior.

OLYMPUS AND KISSAVOS.

Olympus once, and Kissavos, two neighboring mounts contended, Which of the two the rain should pour, and which shed down the

snow-storm;

And Kissavos pours down the rain, Olympus sheds the snow-storm, Then Kissavos in anger turns, and speaks to high Olympus.

KISSAVO8.

Browbeat me not, Olympus, thou by robber feet betrampled, -
For I am Kissavos, the mount, in far Larissa famous;

I am the joy of Turkish land, and of Larissa's Agas,

OLYMPUS.

Ha! Kissavos! ha! Renegade! thou Turk-betrampled hillock;
The Turks they tread thee under foot, and all Larissa's Agas;
I am Olympus, he of old, renowned the world all over,
And I have summits forty-two, and two-and-sixty fountains,
And every fount a banner has, and every bough a robber,
And on my higher summits top, an eagle fierce is sitting,
And holding in his talons clutched, a bead of slaughtered warrior.

EAGLE.

What hast thou done, O head of mine, of what hast thou been

guilty?

How came the chance about that thou art clutched within my

talons?

HEAD.

Devour, O bird, my youthful strength, devour my manly valor,
And let thy pinion grow an ell, a span thy talon lengthen,
In Luros and Xeromeros, I was an Armatolos;

In Chasia and Olympus next, twelve years I was a robber,
And sixty Agas have I killed, and left their hamlets burning,
And all the Turks and Albanese, that on the field of battle
My hand has slain, my eagle brave, are more than can be num-
bered.

But me the doom befell at last, to perish in the battle.

The last piece which I shall read to you is upon a subject common enough in the ballad poetry of several other nations—a ride of the living with the dead. You will remember the very striking ballad of Leonore, by Bürger, so admirably illustrated by Retsch. I think the subject is more vigorously handled by the Greek than by the German. By way of explaining some of the expressions, I will remark that the mother brings up her daughter in secret, that she may not fall under the eye of some Turkish Pacha, who might tear her from home, and shut her up in his harem. Babylon stands for some far distant country. The "golden raiment," is the raiment adorned with golden coins a mode of personal ornamentation still followed by the maidens in many parts of Greece and Turkey. The ballad is called

CONSTANTINE AND ARETE.

O mother, thou with thy nine sons, and with one only daughter, Thine only daughter, well beloved, the dearest of thy children, For twelve years thou didst keep the maid, the sun did not behold

her, Whom in the darkness thou didst bathe, in secret braid her tresses, And by the starlight and the dawn, didst wind her curling ringlets, Nor knew the neighborhood that thou didst have so fair a daugh

ter,

When came to thee from Babylon a wooer's soft entreaty:
Eight of the brothers yielded not, but Constantine consented.
"O mother give thine Arete, bestow her on the stranger,
That I may have her solace dear when far away I wander."

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"Though thou art wise, my Constantine, thou hast unwisely spoken:

Be woe my lot, or be it joy, who will restore my daughter?"
He calls to witness God above, he calls the holy martyrs,
Be woe her lot, or be it joy, he would restore her daughter :
And when they wedded Arete, in that far distant country,
Then comes the year of sorrowing, and all the nine did perish.
All lonely was the mother left, like a reed alone in the meadow;
O'er the eight graves she beats her breast, o'er eight is heard her

wailing,

And at the tomb of Constantine, she rends her hair in anguish.

"Arise, my Constantine, arise, for Arete I languish :

On God to witness thou didst call, didst call the holy martyrs, Be woe my lot, or be it joy, thou wouldst restore my daughter."

And forth at midnight hour he fares, the silent tomb deserting, He makes the cloud his flying steed, he makes the star his bridle, And by the silver moon convoyed, to bring her home he journeys: And finds her combing down her locks, abroad by silvery moonlight, And greets the maiden from afar, and from afar bespeaks her.

"Arise, my Aretula dear, for thee our mother longeth." "Alas! my brother, what is this? what wouldst at such an hour? If joy betide our distant home, I wear my golden raiment, If woe betide, dear brother mine, I go as now I'm standing." "Think not of joy, think not of woe-return as here thou standest."

And while they journey on their way, all on the way returning, They hear the Birds, and what they sing, and what the Birds are

saying.

"Ho! see the maiden all so fair, a Ghost it is that bears her." "Didst hear the Birds, my Constantine, didst list to what they're saying?"

"Yes they are Birds, and let them sing, they're Birds, and let

them chatter: "

And yonder, as they journey on, still other Birds salute them.

"What do we see, unhappy ones, ah! woe is fallen on us; Lo! there the living sweep along, and with the dead they travel.” "Didst hear, my brother Constantine, what yonder Birds are

saying?"