Imatges de pÓgina


[The lines of Lord Byron are printed, on account of the similarity of

some passages in the Greek.]

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece,

Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew

the arts of war and peace,
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung !

Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.

The Scian and the Teian muse,

The hero's harp, the lover's lute,
Have found the fame your shores refuse; ;

Their place of birth alone is mute

To sounds which echo further west

Than your sires’ · Islands of the Bless'd.'


[This Ode obtained the Gold Medal in the University of Cambridge.

A few alterations have been made in it since.]

Είθε τις

κούφαις πτερύγεσσιν άρας τηλ' επ' άκτάν Λεσβίδ' άναρπάσαι με τας γαρ εμείρω χερι συλλαβείν φόρ

μιγγα λιγείαν,

ά ποτ' εις έρωτα και άδονάν κήρ
εξέγειρεν Ελλάδος' ώ, πόθεν μοι
φίλτρα τ' έλθοι και μελίγαρυς ομφα


χαρμoναν άβαν τε πνέουσα χορδάς
πολλά μούνα μειλιχιάν υπ' αίγλάν
εσπέρας ακύμονα προς θάλασσαν

στάσ' επί πρωνος

καρδίας θρήνον δυσέρωτέφώνει
έκλυον δρυμοί θ' αλίαι τε πέτραι,
πενθέων τοίκτο γλυκερών αοιδάς

λάθετ' αηδών:

The Mountains look on Marathon

And Marathon looks on the sea;

And musing there an hour alone,

I dream'd that Greece might still be free;

For standing on the Persians' grave,
I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis;

And ships, by thousands, lay below,

And men in nations :—all were his !

He counted them at break of day-
And when the sun set where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou,

My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now

The heroic bosom beats no more

And must thy lyre, so long divine,

Degenerate into hands like mine?

τας δε κηληθμούς και σιδαροχάρμας θελγεθ' υμνατήρ, και άρειον ορμάν έσχε, και τερπναϊς μανίαισι πάντα

θυμόν έδωκεν.

ήν τάδ'· Αιγαίας χέλυος πέπαυται φθόγγος" υμνατών χάρις εξόλωλε: κύμα νύν μόνον ποτί θιν' ερήμαν

πένθιμον άδει.


αλλ' έμαδειαν ψιθυρίσματαυράν τηλόθεν σαίνει φέρετ' ώ θεοί νηνέμου δι' αιθέρος, ένθα ναίει

άμβροτον είαρ,

και φλέγει μειδήμασιν 'Αφροδίτας y τε και πόντος φέρετένθα νάσοι κάλλεϊ στέφουσιν ανάριθμοι κρυσ

τάλλινον οίδμα

θέσκελαι νάσοι, παρά ταϊσι καλά πάντα, πλήν ανδρών γενεάς, τέθαλε βοτρύων εκεί γάνος, άλίω χρυ

σοίο γενεθλον,

'Tis something, in the dearth of fame,

Though link'd among a fetter'd race, To feel at least a patriot's shame,

Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here?

For Greeks a blush-for Greece a tear.

Must we but

weep o'er days more bless'd ?

Must we but blush ?-Our fathers bled.

Earth! render back from out thy breast

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

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