Our tears, my friends, will be grateful, very grateful to his shade, for they are the tears of sincere affection; but much more grateful will be our deeds in the cause of our country, which, though removed from us, he will observe from the heavens, of which his virtues have doubtless opened to him the gates. This return alone does he require from us for all his munificence; this reward for his love towards us; this consolation for his sufferings in our cause; and this inheritance for the loss of his invaluable life. When your exertions, my friends, shall have liberated us from the hands which have so long held us down in chains; from the hands which have torn from our arms, our property, our brothers, our children;-then will his spirit rejoice, then will his shade be satisfied!-Yes, in that blessed hour of our freedom, the Archbishop will extend his sacred and free hand, and pronounce a blessing over his venerated tomb; the young warrior sheathing his sword, red with the blood of his tyrannical oppressors, will strew it with laurel; the statesman will consecrate it with his oratory; and the poet, resting upon the marble, will become doubly inspired: the virgins of Greece (whose beauty our illustrious fellow-citizen By

ron has celebrated in many of his poems,) without any longer fearing contamination from the rapacious hands of our oppressors, crowning their heads with garlands, will dance round it, and sing of the beauty of our land, which the poet of our age has already commemorated with such grace and truth. But what sorrowful thought now presses upon my mind! My fancy has carried me away; I had pictured to myself all that my heart could have desired; I had imagined the blessing of our Bishops, the hymns and laurel crowns, and the dance of the virgins of Greece round the tomb of the benefactor of Greece ;-but this tomb will not contain his precious remains; the tomb will remain void; but a few days more will his body remain on the face of our land—of his new chosen country; it cannot be given over to our arms; it must be borne to his own native land, which is honoured by his birth.

Oh Daughter! most dearly beloved by him, your arms will receive him; your tears will bathe the tomb which shall contain his body;and the tears of the orphans of Greece will be shed over the urn containing his precious heart, and over all the land of Greece, for all the land of Greece is his tomb. As in the last moment

of his life you and Greece were alone in his heart and upon his lips, it was but just that she (Greece) should retain a share of the precious remains. Messolonghi, his country, will ever watch over and protect with all her strength the urn containing his venerated heart, as a symbol of his love towards us. All Greece, clothed in mourning and inconsolable, accompanies the procession in which it is borne; all ecclesiastical, civil and military honours attend it; all his fellow-citizens of Messolonghi and fellow-countrymen of Greece follow it, crowning it with their gratitude, and bedewing it with their tears; it is blessed by the pious benedictions and prayers of our Archbishop, Bishop, and all our Clergy. Learn, noble Lady! learn that chieftains bore it on their shoulders, and carried it to the church ; thousands of Greek soldiers lined the way through which it passed, with the muzzles of their muskets, which had destroyed so many tyrants, pointed towards the ground, as though they would war against that earth which was to deprive them for ever of the sight of their benefactor ;-all this crowd of soldiers, ready at a moment to march against the implacable enemy of Christ and man, surrounded the funeral couch,

and swore never to forget the sacrifices made by your Father for us, and never to allow the spot where his heart is placed to be trampled upon by barbarous and tyrannical feet. Thousands of Christian voices were in a moment heard, and the temple of the Almighty resounded with supplications and prayers that his venerated remains might be safely conveyed to his native land, and that his soul might rest where the righteous alone find rest.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF LORD BYRON.

FROM A GREEK JOURNAL.

Ὠδὴ εἰς τὸν λόρδ Βύρωνα.
Ελεγεία.

Τοὺς λαμπροὺς ὕμνους τῆς νίκης ἀφίνων.
Κλαυθμῶν ἠχεῖ ἡρώων ὁ στρατός
Πικρῶς λυποῦντ ̓ αἱ ψυχαὶ τῶν ἑλλήνων
Τ ̓ ἀκούει μακρόθεν καὶ χαίρ' ἐχθρός.
Ο φίλος ἦλθε, πλὴν μόλις τὸν εἶδον,
Σκάπτουν κλαίοντες τὸν τάφον αὐτοῦ.
Ἰδοὺ τὸ τέλος ἐνδόξων ἐλπίδων

Καὶ τὸ τρόπαιον θανάτου σκληροῦ.
Ἦλθε νὰ ἐμπνευσ ̓ ὡς ἄλλος Τυρταῖος,
Εἰς κάθε στῆθος πολέμων ὁρμῆν
Πλήν φευ! ὁ Βαρδος ἐλπίσας ματαίως
Ἰδοὺ μένει εἰς αἰώνιον σιωπήν.
Ὡς δένδρον κεῖτ ̓ ὑπ ̓ ἐκόσμει μεγάλως
Τὴν κορυφὴν μουσικοῦ Παρνασσοῦ,
Νῦν προποδῶν φθείρουσατου τὸ κάλλος
Πνόη τὸ ἔῤῥιψ ̓ ἀνέμου σφοδροῦ.
Ἑλλὰς! ἐὰν τὸ σῶματ ̓ ἡ ̓Αγγλία

Νὰ φέρ ̓ εἰς μνῆμα ζητᾶ πατρικὸν
Εἰπὲ, Μουσῶν ὦ μητέρα γλυκεῖα,

Εἶναι τέκνον μοῦ ὁ ὑιὸς τῶν Μουσῶν.
Καταφρονῶν τῶν ἐρώτων τοὺς θρήνους
Ἠδονῆς μὴν ἀκούων τὴν φωνὴν,
Εζήτ ̓ ἐδὼ ἡρώων τοὺς κινδύνους
Τάφον ἂς ἔχ ̓ ἡρώων εἰς τὴν γῆν.