Christos, the Sultan sends for thee, and the Agas they must

have thee!

So long as Christos lives, he bows not to the Turk.
Then they ran upon one another with their guns,
Fire upon fire they gave and fell upon the spot.

BUKOVALLAS.

What noise is that which rises there?

rum?

What is that great ala

Are they killing oxen? Are they fighting with wild beasts?
No: they are not killing oxen, not fighting with wild beasts.
Bukovallas stands in fight against a thousand and five hundred,
Between Kerassovon and the town of Kenuria.

A fair maiden looks out from a window of the house;
Johannes, stop the fight, stop awhile the shooting,

Let the dust sink to the ground, let the smoke fleet away,
That we may count the troop and see how many fail.

The Turks counted theirs three times and five hundred failed, The sons of Robbers counted theirs, and but three braves were absent;

One was gone to fetch us water, one for bread,
The third and the bravest lies there on his gun.

They use, like our Indians, the word brave, braves, as the highest title for a man. The Grave of Dimos also corresponds with the thought of the "Blackbird's Grave," as related by Catlin.

THE GRAVE OF DIMOS.

The sun is sinking now, and Dimos gives command,
Bring water, children, and partake the evening meal,

And thou, Lampraki, nephew mine, sit down here by my side,
Here take my arms and be their leader now.

But you, my children, take my orphaned sword,

Go, hew green boughs, and with them make my bed,
And bring a father confessor, that I may tell all sins
That I have ever done, and be by him absolved.
Was Armatole for thirty years, for twenty was I Klepht,
And now the death hour comes, and this hour I will die,
O make my grave and make it a broad and high one,

In which I could stand up to fight, and load my gun in the middle,

And on the right side leave for me a little window open,

At which the swallows may fly in to tell me when the spring

comes,

And where in fair May moons the nightingales may sing.

They resemble the Indians, too, in their treatment of prisoners; and that they showed the same respect to women is proved by the haughty conduct of the female captive in the following ballad.

SKYLLODIMOS.

Skyllodimos sat at supper beneath the lofty fir-trees;
At his side he had Irene, that she might fill his wine.
Pour out, O fair Irene, be my cupbearer till daybreak,
Until the morning star shall rise, the Pleiades shall set,
When I may send thee home with ten of these my braves.
Dimos, I am not thy slave, to fill the cup for thee.

I am the bride of a Proestos, the daughter of an Archon,
And see at break of day two wanderers approach;

Their beards are long, their faces black, and they greet Skyllodimos,

O Skyllodimos, a good day. O Wanderers, you are welcome,
But, wandering strangers, how knew ye that I am Skyllodimos?
We bring thee words of love from thy own absent brother,
We saw him in Janina, we saw him in his prison ;
On his hands were chains, and on his feet were fetters.
Then Dimos wept aloud, rose quickly to depart;
Where art thou going, Dimos, whither, O valiant Captain?
It is thy brother's self, come here, that he may kiss thee.
And then the Captain knew him and took him in his arms,
They kissed each other tenderly both on the eyes and lips;
And now asked Dimos him, thus spake he to his brother,
Come here, my brother sweet, sit here and tell thy story;
How hast thou so escaped the hands of the Albanians?
By night I loosed my hands, I drew off both the fetters,
I broke the iron bar in two and leaped into the trench,
I found a little bark and rowed upon the lake,
Last night I left Janina and reached the mountains.

"Skillodimos was the name of an ancient Armatoli family in Akarnania. In later times there were four brothers of the name, two of whom are introduced in this song. The one who appears here as the robber captain was not of much celebrity. The youngest, Spyros Skillodimos, is properly the hero of the lay. In 1805 he fell into the hands of Ali Pacha, who shut him up in a subterranean dungeon of the castle of Janina. Many months this unfortunate dragged his chains from side to side in the mud of his narrow dungeon. At last by the help of 21

VOL. III.

NO. II.

a file, of his long girdle and wonderful agility, he reached and sprang from a window of the tower in which his prison was. But a wide and deep piece of water surrounds the castle of Janina, and Skillodimos was forced to pass three winter days and nights in the swamps overgrown with reeds which border it, before he could find a bark to take him across. Afterwards, through the most difficult paths he found his way to the mountains of Akarnania."

The few lines on Kontoghiannis point to a noble life.

INSCRIPTION ON THE SWORD OF KONTOGHIANNIS.

Who trembles not at tyrants' word,
Frankly and freely walks the earth,
Esteems his fame than life more worth,
To him alone belongs this sword.

KONTOGHIANNIS. A FRAGMENT.

What has befallen Gura's hills, that they so mournful stand? Has the hail laid them waste? Presses them the hard winter? No hail has laid them waste, presses them no hard winter; Kontoghiannis wages war in winter as in summer.

This refers to one known from her connexion with the hero, and is worthy of reading for its own beauty.

THE SORROWFUL EMBASSY.

She sleeps, wife of the noble captain, son of Kontoghiannis,
Under a golden coverlet, and gold-embroidered sheets.
I am afraid to wake her, I dare not tell her,
So I will take nutmegs and throw at her;
Perhaps she will feel the perfume and awake.

And see by the perfume of the many nuts

The noble captain's wife is waked, and asks with sweet tongue, What bringest thou for news from our captains?

I bring bitter news from our captains;

Nicholas is a captive, Constantine is wounded;

Where is my mother? Come to me, come, and hold my temples,
And bind them, bind them hard while I sing the mourning song.
For which of both shall I weep first, for which sing the mourn-
ing song?

I weep for them, for Constantine, for Nicholas, for both
Were flags upon the heights and banners in the field.

The mountains find a brave clear voice.

OLYMPOS.

Olympos and Kissavos* the two high peaks were striving;
Olympos turns itself to Kissavos, and says,

Strive not with me, Kissavos, thou trodden in the dust,
I am the old Olympos, through the wide world so famous,
With two and forty peaks, with two and sixty sources,
Beside each source a banner waves, by each tree stands a Klepht,
And on my highest summit there is an eagle sitting,
And in his talons holds he fast the head of a dead hero.

"O Head, what hast thou done? tell me how didst thou sin? Eat, Eagle, feed thee on my youth, feed on my strength and valor,

Till thy wings be ell-thick, and span-thick be thy talons,
In Luros and Xeromeros I was an Armatole,

In Chasia and on this mount, twelve years long a Klepht,
Sixty Agas have I slain and burnt, too, all their hamlets,
And what I left upon the place, both Turks and Albanese
So many were they, bird of mine, that they cannot be numbered;
Yet at the last to me the lot came too, at last I fell in battle."

The following presents a new Penelope.

KALIAKUDAS.

Were I a bird that I might fly, might hover in the air,
Then I might seek another land, seek Ithaca the lonely,
That I might hear Lukina, might hear the wedded wife of Lukas,
How there she weeps and mourns, dark tears in streams out-
pouring;

She like a partridge hangs the head, unfeathered like a duck,
She wears a robe that is as black as is the raven's wing,

At her window sits she, out-gazing o'er the sea,

The skiffs as they sail by she questions every one,
Ye barks, who sail so swift, ye golden Brigantines,
Have ye not seen my husband, seen Lukas Kaliakudas?
Last night we left him, left him beyond Gaurolimi,
His band were roasting lambs, roasting wethers at the fire,
And they had with them Agas five to turn around the spits.
This might serve as a battle song.

STERGIOS.

Although the passes Turkish be beset by the Albanians,
So long as Stergios lives, he cares not for the Pachas;

* Kissavos is the Ossa of the ancients.

So long as snow falls on the hills we yield not to the Turk,
Up, let us make our camp where wolves have found their home;
In cities on the plains among the rocks dwell slaves,
The valiant have their city in clefts of desert rocks;
O rather with the wild beasts dwell than with the Turk.

The Suliote war furnishes ballads enough to make a Homeric canto by itself. Here the women play their part, as heroines. Throughout the ballads their position is commanding, living constantly in the open air, their beauty is healthy and majestic. The uncertainties and dangers which beset their lives, while taking from them their natural office of making home quiet and lovely for the rest of man, develop the higher qualities of generous love, fortitude, and a ready helpfulness. The maiden is sometimes. introduced feeding the horse of her lover, sometimes with the gun in her hand. The following describe women with accessories that fit them as well as the harp, or the work-table.

TSAVELLINA.

There came a little bird and sat upon the bridge,

It mourns in a loud voice and speaks, it speaks to Ali Pacha;
This is not thy Janina, not here the waters of Janina,
This is not Prevesa, where thou canst build thy fortress;
No! this is the famous Suli, Suli the high-famed,

Where little children stand in fight, and women, and maidens,
Where Tsavellina stands in fight, the steel in her right hand,
The nursling in one arm, in the other the gun,

Her apron full of cartridges, walks she in the sight of all.

THE DEATH OF DESPO.

A great sound is heard, many gunshots fall;

Are they shooting at a marriage, shooting at a feast of joy?
They are shooting at no marriage here, at no feast of joy;
It is Despo who fights, with her daughters in law and daughters,
She was besieged in the tower of Dimulas by the Albanians.
Give up thy arms, thou wife of Georgos, thou art not in Suli,
Thou art the slave of the Pacha, the slave of the Albanians.
Has Suli laid down arms, and is Kiapha Turkish?
Never yet had Despo, never will have Turks for masters!
She seizes a firebrand, calls to daughters in law and daughters,
Let us not go into slavery, up, children, up and follow me!
And she throws fire into the powder, and all perish in the flames.