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THE GREEK SAILOR'S SONG.
'Tis morn, and the tempest no longer is foaming,
When high on the surge of the ocean I'm soaring, When sinks the proud ship 'midst the mariner's shriek, Unhurt by the tempest so fearfully roaring,
I glide lightly by in my little caîque.
I leave thee, my country! all blighted and lonely, Thy shores are defenceless, thy sons are all weak, But wherever I wander my heart shall bemoan thee, As I sing to the oar of my little caîque.
Though 'tis long since the name of the Helots has
Their spirit still lingers in every Greek:
Though blighted the hopes I so fondly have cherish'd, Yet liberty breathes in my little caîque.
Could our ancestors think while the Persian was flying, That their sons could look down on their chains and
Could they think, while for freedom the Spartan was
That freedom would end in a little caîque?
My country! oh! how canst thou turn to that hour,
WHEN Time, or soon or late, has chang'd
I'll cherish still my youthful vow.
Perchance in life's more sober hour,
Thy charms, sweet girl, may lose their power,
Friendship shall every care beguile
When love can warm the heart no more;
And memory, waking with a smile,
Shall join us firmer than before.
And oft, when time our vows hath prov'd, We'll turn to those sweet hours of joy;
When both were loving and belov'd,
When thou wert fair, and I—a boy.
CALM as the eve of parting day,
To realms of endless harmony.
of friends so lov'd, so dear,
The father's sigh, the mother's tear,
Too truly told the hour was near
Of death approaching rapidly.
The outstretch'd hand, the lover's kiss,
The hopes of everlasting bliss,
That seek beyond the grave's abyss,
The raptures of Eternity: