Reader, I am weary of these remarks, as I doubt not thou art. Therefore will I cease. And here would I advertise thee that I travel more for my own pleasure than for thine. My path lies through a lovely country, and I shall walk, run, halt, refresh, whenever and wherever I think proper. I shall take the cross-roads--rove through the green fields--lie under the shady trees--and drink of the cool springs. If thou wilt wander with me, it is well, and I trust our trip will be a merry one. It is my design to do into English--as we may aptly express such barbarous usage--some of the Anthology--to transplant and naturalize among our northern rocks some of those rare and beautiful exotics. The soil is cold, and the clime rude--yet, with thy fostering care, and sunny smiles, the flowers may grow. And if, thus roughly torn from their warm home, they seem pale and sickly, have the justice, kind reader, to believe that they _were_ beautiful--yea! most beautiful. The blame be on the unskillful hand that removed them from their own sunny Greece--the garden, where they bloomed. Thou knowest that the Syrian olive would be but a stinted thing among the snows of Greenland, even though “with cost, and care, and warmth, induced to shoot.” Perchance my efforts may not be entirely without their value, since those, who have drunk with thirsty fervor at the fountain, my awkward paraphrase will only send back to their “first love” with renewed devotion, while that Sun of Poetry, which, though “shorn of his beams,” will not, I trust, have lost all “his original brightness,” will, in others, enkindle a holy ardor to climb the “Aonian mount,” and gaze full on his unclouded splendor. First of all, let me present thee with a glorious song--I mean glorious in its primal sky of Greece, before my dull northern disc transmitted its beams, dimmed and diminished. It is an ode to two tyrannicidal brothers, Aristogeiton and Harmodius, who, at the Panathenian festival of Minerva, concealing swords in the myrtle branches borne on that occasion, attacked Hipparchus, and by his death regained their country’s freedom. It was sung by the Greeks at their entertainments. It has been Anglicised frequently, but its simple beauty, and deep enthusiasm, defy all translation. In branch of myrtle will I bear the sword, As did Harmodius of old, When slew he Athens’ tyrant-lord, And, with his brother bold, Armed in his country’s cause, Preserved her equal laws. Dearest Harmodius! thou art not dead; But in the islands of the bless’d thou art, Where swift Achilles rests his weary head, And brave Tydides calms his stormy heart. In branch of myrtle will I bear the sword, As did Harmodius of old, Who, with his brother bold, When votive cups at Pallas’ shrine were poured, Destroyed Hipparchus, Athens’ tyrant-lord.