Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy soul to realms above us fled

Tho' like a star it dwells o'er head

Still lights this world below.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thro' isles of light where heroes tread

  And flowers ethereal blow,

Thy god-like Spirit now is led,

Thy lip with life ambrosial fed

Forgets all taste of woe.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

The myrtle round that falchion spread

  Which struck the immortal blow,

Throughout all time with leaves unshed—

The patriot's hope, the tyrant's dread—

  Round Freedom's shrine shall grow.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Where hearts like thine have broke or bled,

  Tho' quenched the vital glow,

Their memory lights a flame instead,

Which even from out the narrow bed

  Of death its beams shall throw.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

Thy name, by myriads sung and said,

  From age to age shall go,

Long as the oak and ivy wed,

As bees shall haunt Hymettus' head,

  Or Helle's waters flow.

Thou art not dead—thou art not dead!

  No, dearest Harmodius, no.

* * * * *

'Mong those who lingered listening there,—

  Listening with ear and eye as long

As breath of night could towards them bear

  A murmur of that mournful song,—

A few there were in whom the lay

  Had called up feelings far too sad

To pass with the brief strain away,

  Or turn at once to theme more glad;

And who in mood untuned to meet

  The light laugh of the happie train,

Wandered to seek some moonlight seat

Where they might rest, in converse sweet,

  Till vanisht smiles should come again.

And seldom e'er hath noon of night

To sadness lent more soothing light.

On one side in the dark blue sky

Lonely and radiant was the eye

Of Jove himself, while on the other

  'Mong tiny stars that round her gleamed,

The young moon like the Roman mother

  Among her living "jewels" beamed.

Touched by the lovely scenes around,

  A pensive maid—one who, tho' young,

Had known what 'twas to see unwound

  The ties by which her heart had clung—

Wakened her soft tamboura's sound,

  And to its faint accords thus sung:—