THE SONG OF HARMODIUS. Εν μύρτου κλαδὶ τὸ ξίφος φορήσαι, Ωσπες ̔Αρμόδιος κ' Αριστογείτων Οτε τόν τυραννον κτανέτην, Ισονόμους τ' Αθήνας έποιησάτην, Φίλταθ' ̔Αρμοδι ̓, ὅυ τι που τέθνηκας. Νήσοις δ ̓ ἐν μακάρων σε φασιν είναι να περ ποδώκης Αχιλεὺς, Τυδείδην τε φασιν Διομήδεκ. Εν μύρτου κλαδὶ τὸ ξίφος φορήσω ̔Ωσπες ̔Αρμόδιος κ' Αριστογέντων, Ο ̓ Αθηναίης ἐν θυσίας Ανδρα τύραννον ̔Ιππαρχον ἐπαινέτην. Λεὶ σφῶν κλέος ἔσσεται κατ' αἶαν Φιλταθ' ̔Αρμόδι κ' Αριστόγειτον, Οτι τον τύραννον κτάνετον Ιςονόμους τ' Αθήνας ἐποιήσατον, He is not dead, our best beloved Harmodius is not lost, considered in connexion with the Fine Arts. The assassination of Julius Caesar was a sorry sight; nor, setting aside other reasons, could Brutus, who was but a third-rate man at most, have had any right in nature to strike "the foremost man of all the world." Charlotte Corday, though a fine creature, had been far better at home hunting hens' nests among the nettles, than stabbing Marat in his slipper-bath. We hated Napoleon, but cannot say we wished him treacherously put to death by a private hand. And we enjoyed the execution of Sandt with more zest than the murder of Kotzebue. With calls him, on ancient authorities, regard to Hipparchus, Cumberland "this excellent and most amiable prince." He reigned for fourteen years, we believe; was a lover of poetry and science, and "every inch a king." Plato, if we err not, equals his reign with the golden reign of Saturn. However, Harmodius and Aristogeiton slew him; twenty years afterwards his brother Hippias-an outlaw was killed at Marathon— and there was an end to the Pisistradidæ. Base motives are attributed by some to the assassins, but all is dark. We shall suppose them patriots. But with Troy's conquerors 1emoved To some more happy coast. BY CALLISTRATUS. CHRISTOPHER NORTH. LIKE Harmodius and Aristogeiton, The myrtle-wreathed sword I'll bear-when Athens' lord they slew, And equal laws restored. Harmodius dear! thou art not dead: Like Harmodius and Aristogeiton, The sword,-when they Harmodius slew For ever, over all the earth, CUMBERLAND. Bind then the myrtle's mystic bough, SANDFORD. Wreathed with myrtles be my glaive, Yes! let myrtle-wreaths be round, Lowth, in his Sacred Poetry of the Hebrews, speaks enthusiastically of this song, saying, that it was not to be wondered at that no one should have dared to attempt to restore the tyranny of the Pisistratidæ in Athens, where, at all festive meetings, even among the lowest of the people, was daily chanted—“ Σκολιόν Callistrati nescio cujus, sed ingeniosi certe poetæ, et valde boni civis;" and, alluding to the domination of Cæsar, he says, that had such a patriotic song been familiar in the mouths of the inhabitants of the Suburra," plus Mehercule valuisset unum ̔Αρμόδιο μέλος quam Ciceronis Philippicæ omnes." Is not that extravagant? 'Tis spiritreviving to sing aloud Voiced by Fame eternally, "Old songs that are the music of the heart;" and we have all heard of that saying of Fletcher of Saltoun-"Let others make the laws, give me the making of the songs of a country." But the power of the Pisistratida was not palsied merely, it was dead and buried beyond all possibility of resurrection, long before the singing of this famous Exo2o. The elder Callistratus flourished about a century after the assassination of Hipparchus, the younger half a century later, and the youngest-for there are three spoken of about 150 years only before the Christian era. Death, Harmodius! come not near thee, heights of noblest daring; and there is "SEND HIM VICTORIOUS, But let us take a critical glance at the translations. Our own is a mere attempt to versify the original literally; and while we give it as an example of the style in which the song should be translated, we admit that it is poorly done, and nearly an entire failure. Cumberland's is spirited; and it will be noticed that he supposes the song to consist of but three stanzas. Denman's versions are both good; but faulty as well in particular lines as in the general conception. Thus, the second line of the first version, "The sword that laid the tyrant low," is incorrect; that is asking the spectators and auditors to believe too much, at least more than Callistratus. The second line of the second stanza is utter nonsense, "Thou ne'er shalt feel the stroke of death." Harmodius was killed on the spot. The song says, "Thou art not dead;" nor was he, for he was in the Islands of the Blest-but he had "felt the stroke of death." The spirit of the two following lines is destroyed by the use of the future tense- "The heroes' happy isles shall be" they were—os Quoiv The song is a fine one, and was very popular-national; it struck forcibly a single key that vibrated to the core of the people's heart. Chanted by a manly voice, with accompaniment of suitable action, and the singer like a hero, at some festal entertainment, where all the guests were full of wine and patriot ism, the effect must have been mag--and so believed all who lived nificent, and at its close sublime the under Minerva; "while Freedom's muttered thunder of "Death to all name is understood," is poor in comtyrants." But, on most occasions, a parison with a nar'alay; and the song little poetry will suffice to rouse the was not addressed formally to the imagination of a great assemblage to "wise and good," of whom there is no mention because no thought, but to all who had ears to hear the names of the deliverers. In the second version, line second, "noble and brave" is but so so; "the poets exultingly tell" is insufferable; "buried his pride in the grave" is vastly fine; all that about Minerva is good in itself, but lugged in ad libitum; and "may your bliss be immortal on high," is a sad slip in a classical scholar. Yet as a paraphrase, the composition is certainly above mediocrity, and may be read at any time with pleasure, at times with delight. Sandford's is free from such faults, and is a fine-a noble version. But does not the power of the Greek song dwell in the names and in the proud repetition-the loving iteration-of the names of the destroyers? They are in every stanza-the lines they fill are the words of the spell. Drop them and the charm is broken-the singer absurd, with his myrtle and sword. You might just as well, in translating into another language Here is a long leaf of tinsel, in place of the solid gold: "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots wham Bruce has aften led," omit Wallace and Bruce, and give us "the noble and brave." Elton felt that; and therefore his version has not only bones, which the others have, and soul which they have too, but the soul of the poet and the patriot, as it is flung into his exulting and threatening song of vengeance, triumph, and restoration. For that, and for its general flow and glow, we pronounce Elton's version which is free, but not paraphrastic-by far the best. But we have forgot that great Grecian, Sir William Jones, who attempted, and, as some say, succeeded in every thing, and who of course could not be happy without inditing "An Ode in imitation of Callis tratus." We all know how out of five lines,supposed to be by Alcæus,O, &c. he has spun thirty-" What constitutes a state," &c.-of which batch the first baker's dozen are animated commonplaces, and frequently used with effect in quotation by patriotic common-council men, and people in Parliament. But, with the exception of those lines, and "Boy, bid the liquid ruby flow," in poetry Sir William is as weak as whey, which is well known to be weaker than water. The poet of Minerva, Pan, and Bacchus, must likewise be the poet of Venus and Cupid; and here is a pretty love-lay. We shall give you the Greek. εἴθ ̓ ἄπυρον καλὸν γενοίμην μέγα χρυσίον καὶ με καλὴ γυνὴ θοροῖη καθαρὸν θεμένη νόον. Εἴθε λύρα καλὴ γενοίμαν ἐλεφαντίνη καί με καλοὶ παῖδες φοροῖεν Διονύσιον εἰς χορόν. Would that I were a beautiful ivory lyre, And that beautiful youths might carry me to the dance of Bacchus. And that a beautiful woman having a pure mind might carry me.-C. N. I wish I were an ivory lyre A lyre of burnish'd ivory That to the Dionysian choir Blooming boys might carry me! This may be considered, Mr Merivale says, as the original of many similar "wishes," among the amatory poets, at least if the ode ascribed to Anacreon be of subsequent date. That ode, by the by, is charmingly translated by Mr Merivale and here it is. TO HIS MISTRESS. Sad Niobe, on Phrygian shore, On swallow's wing thro' liquid air. So thou may'st pleas'd behold me, Or robe, with close embraces About thy limbs to fold me. Or would I were a chalice bright, THE LOVER'S WISH. Oh, that I were some gentle air, That, when the heats of summer glow And lay thy panting bosom bare, I might upon that bosom blow! The epigrams selected by the editor from among the 'Adora (uncertain), printed at the end of Brunck's and Jacobs's collections, are principally such as, from internal evidence, would seem to belong to the earlier and better ages of Grecian poetry; and here is one in which the same kind of wish has graceful expression. A crystal fount, to lave thee, Sweet oyls, thy hair to deck, Or pearl, to gem thy neck. Or, might I worship at thy feet, "O that my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa', And I myself a drap o' dew, Into her bonny breast to fa'! MERIVALE. Oh, that I were yon blushing flower, Which even now thy hands have press'd, It would be easy to recollect many pretty little poems breathing the same sort of amorous fancy-and it may be pleasant to look at two of the most delightful-one by Shakspeare, and one by Burns. "On a day, (alack the day!) 6 But alack! my hand is sworn, Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn: That I am forsworn for thee: And deny himself for Jove, "O, there beyond expression blest! I'd feast on beauty a' the nicht; |