It was not only in Greece that Byron's death was profoundly felt, but in all Europe, which was under the spell of his genius. Mrs. Anne Thackeray Ritchie, in her charming recollections of Tennyson, says:--"One day the news came to the village--the dire news which spread across the land, filling men's hearts with consternation--that Byron was dead. Alfred was then a boy about fifteen. 'Byron was dead! I thought the whole world was at an end,' he once said, speaking of those bygone days. 'I thought everything was over and finished for every one--that nothing else mattered. I remember I walked out alone and carved "Byron is dead" into the sandstone.'" [Illustration: Signature: Chas. Dudley Warner] MAID OF ATHENS Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, ~Zôe mou, sas agapô.~[107] By those tresses unconfined, Wooed by each Ægean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, ~Zôe mou, sas agapô.~ By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, ~Zôe mou, sas agapô.~ Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! ~Zôe mou, sas agapô.~ FOOTNOTES: [107] Zoë mou, sas agapo: "My life, I love you." TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC SONG I enter thy garden of roses, Beloved and fair Haidée, Each morning where Flora reposes, For surely I see her in thee. O Lovely! thus low I implore thee, Receive this fond truth from my tongue, Which utters its song to adore thee, Yet trembles for what it has sung: As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidée. But the loveliest garden grows hateful When love has abandoned the bowers; Bring me hemlock--since mine is ungrateful, That herb is more fragrant than flowers. The poison, when poured from the chalice, Will deeply embitter the bowl; But when drunk to escape from thy malice, The draught shall be sweet to my soul. Too cruel! in vain I implore thee My heart from these horrors to save: Will naught to my bosom restore thee? Then open the gates of the grave.