The twilight shades are gathering o'er the land-- Shrouding the valleys in the gloom of night, While I beside a murmuring streamlet stand, And see depart the last faint rays of light Which linger round yon mountain's topmost height. 'Tis the lone night--another day has gone, And Time who speeds with never tiring flight, Beheld a thousand laughing eyes this morn, That now are sleeping where no day shall ever dawn. GREEK SONG. The exploit of Harmodius and Aristogiton, in slaying Hipparchus, tyrant of Athens, on the festal day of Minerva--hiding their poniards in myrtle wreaths, which they pretended to carry in honor of the Goddess, was celebrated in an Ode, the unsurpassed strength and beauty of which, it has utterly baffled the skill of all English versifiers to transfuse into our language. The learned are not agreed as to the author of this noble specimen of classic minstrelsy; though by most, it is ascribed to Callistratus. Some have set it down to Alcæus; misled, perhaps, by the tyrant-hating spirit it breathes,--so fully in unison with the deep, trumpet tones of his "golden lyre." Unhappily for the paternity of this ode, he died _eighty years_ before the event it celebrates. Of no other relic of antiquity, probably, have so many translations been attempted. I have seen seven or eight. If the following be added to so many woful failures, the author will not be greatly troubled. It never was in print before--I believe. HYMN, IN HONOR OF HARMODIUS AND ARISTOGITON. [En myrtou kladi to Chiphos phorêsô Ôsper Armodios k' Aristogeitôn, &c.] TRANSLATION. Wreath'd in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal, Like those champions, devoted and brave, When they plunged in the tyrant their steel, And to Athens deliverance gave. Belov'd heroes! your deathless souls roam, In the joy-breathing isles of the blest; Where the mighty of old have their home-- Where Achilles and Diomed rest. In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine, Like Harmodius, the gallant and good, When he made, at the tutelar shrine, A libation of Tyranny's blood. Ye deliverers of Athens from shame-- Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs! Endless ages shall cherish your fame, Embalmed in their echoing songs. Amongst other translations of this exquisite ode, is one by _Charles Abraham Elton_, a translator of Hesiod, and of several other Grecian poems; all of which are in a London edition of two elegant 8vo. volumes. The first stanza of his version is as follows: "In myrtle veiled will I my falchion wear; For thus the patriot sword Harmodius and Aristogeiton bare, When they the tyrant's bosom gored, And bade the men of Athens be Regenerate in equality."