"Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led,

And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread;

But not where noble blood flow'd forth, where sounding javelins flew

-Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and not its last adieu?

What now can breathe of gladness more, what scene, what hour, what tone?

The blue skies fade with all their lights, they fade, since thou art gone!

Ev'n that must leave me, that still face, by all my tears unmoved

-Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!"

A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young,

Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung. "Ianthis! brother of my soul!-oh! where are now the

days

That laugh'd among the deep green hills, on all our infant plays?

When we two sported by the streams, or track'd them to

their source,

And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet fearless

course!

-I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend, I see thy bounding step no more-my brother and my

friend!

"I come with flowers for spring is come!-Ianthis! art thou here?

I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier!

Thou shouldst be crown'd with victory's crown-but oh! more meet they seem,

The first faint violets of the wood, and lilies of the stream ! More meet for one so fondly loved, and laid thus early low

-Alas! how sadly sleeps thy face amidst the sunshine's glow:

The golden glow that through thy heart was wont such joy to send,

-Woe, that it smiles, and not for thee!--my brother and my friend!"

THE PARTING SONG.

This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel, in his " Chansons Populaires de la Grèce Moderne," and accompanied with some very interesting particulars respecting the extempore parting songs, or songs of expаtriation, as he informs us they are called, in which the modern Greeks are accustomed to pour forth their feelings on bidding farewell to their country and friends.

A YOUTH went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasur'd, and most oft recall'd,
And brightest kept, of love ;-a mountain home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,
And half unconscious prayer ;-a Grecian home,
With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.

And this was what he left !-Yet many leave
Far more :-the glistening eye, that first from theirs
Call'd out the soul's bright smile; the gentle hand,
Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps
To where the violets lay; the tender voice
That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection's tones. - He left not these.
-Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother's love!-A bitterer grief
Was his-To part unloved !-of her unloved,
That should have breathed upon his heart, like Spring,
Fostering its young faint flowers!

Yet had he friends,

And they went forth to cheer him on his way
Unto the parting spot-and she too went,
That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.

The parting spot was reach'd :-a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore, for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows. - Upon a rock he sprung,

The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.

"Farewell, farewell!

" I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!-thou 'rt from my native dell,

Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound-a murmur of farewell!

And fare thee well-flow on, my stream !-flow on, thou bright and free!

I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me; But I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving

years,

And therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears;

The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known:

The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!