GREEK FUNERAL CHANT OR MYRIOLOGUE. "Les Chants Funèbres par lesquels on déplore en Grèce la mort de ses proches, prennent le nom particulier de Myriologia, comme qui dirait, Discours de lamentation, complaintes. Un malade vientil de rendre le dernier soupir, sa femme, sa mère, ses filles, ses sœurs, celles, en un mot, de ses plus proches parentes qui sont là, lui ferment les yeux et la bouche, en épanchant librement, chacune selon son naturel et sa mesure de tendresse pour le défunt, la douleur qu' elle ressent de sa perte. Ce premier devoir rempli, elles se retirent toutes chez une de leurs parentes ou de leurs amies. Là elles changent de vêtemens, s'habillent de blanc, comme pour la cérémonie nuptiale, avec cette difference, qu'elles gardent la tête nue, les cheveux épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en circle autour du mort, et leur douleur s'exhale de nouveau, et, comme la première fois, sans règle et sans contrainte. A ces plaintes spontanées succèdent bientôt des lamentations d'une autre espèce: ce sont les Myriologues. Ordinairement c'est la plus proche parente qui prononce le sien la première; après elle les autres parentes, les amies, les simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composés et chantés par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvisés, toujours en vers, et toujours chantés sur un air qui diffère d'un lieu à un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donné, reste invariablement consacré à ce genre de poësie." Chants Populaires de la Grèce Moderne, par C. Fauriel. A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young, Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung. "Ianthis! dost thou sleep?-Thou sleep'st!-but this is not the rest, The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillow'd on my breast! ་ ་ I lull'd thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet son! 60 LAYS OF MANY LANDS. "I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave! I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave! Though mournfully thy smile is fix'd, and heavily thine eye Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie! And fast is bound the springing step, that seem'd on breezes borne, When to thy couch I came and said,— Wake, hunter, wake! 'tis morn!' Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouch'd by slow decay, -And I, the wither'd stem, remain--I would that grief might slay! "Oh! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this would be! I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee! I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing high ;— A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me thou must die ! That thou must die, my fearless one! where swords were flashing red. -Why doth a mother live to say-my first-born and my dead? They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of victory wonSpeak thou, and I will hear! my child, lanthis! my sweet son !" A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young, A fair-hair'd bride the Funeral Chant amidst her weeping sung. "Ianthis! look'st thou not on me?-Can love indeed be fled? When was it wo before to gaze upon thy stately head? That I had bound a breastplate on, and battled at thy side-It would have been a blessed thing together had we died! "But where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword? Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peaceful board? Fast gushing like a mountain-spring!-and couldst thou thus depart? Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath? -Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death! "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 death-bed 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, 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, Wo, that it smiles, and not for thee !-my brother and my friend!" 62 LAYS OF MANY LANDS. THE PARTING SONG. This piece is founded on a tale related by Fauriel in his " Chansons Populaires de la Grèce Moderne," and accompanied by some very interesting particulars respecting the extempore parting songs, or songs of expatriation, 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 Yet had he friends, The parting spot was reach'd :-a lone deep glen, The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven "Farewell, farewell! "I hear thee, O thou rushing stream-thou 'rt from my native dell, Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound well! -a murmur of fare 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! 1 "I see thee once again, my home! thou 'rt there amidst thy vines, And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines. It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering through thy groves, The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves! -The hour the mother loves!-for me beloved it hath not been; Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed scene! Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant years will come -Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home? "Not as the dead !-no, not the dead!-We speak of themwe keep Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep! We hallow ev'n the lyre they touch'd, we love the lay they sung, 1 We pass with softer step the place they fill'd our band among ! |