"Proceed," said his master, "and sing me that plaintive song which is supposed to depict the woes of one of the unhappy sons of Greece." "But may not its sentiments offend your highness?" asked the page. "It is but a song," responded Ibrahim. "I give thee full permission to sing those verses, and I should be sorry were you to subdue aught of the impassioned feelings which they are well calculated to excite within thee." The page turned his handsome countenance up toward the grand vizier, and commenced in melodious, liquid tones, the following song-- SONG OF THE GREEK PAGE. "Oh, are there not beings condemned from their birth, To drag, without solace or hope o'er the earth, The burden of grief and of sorrow? Doomed wretches who know, while they tremblingly say, 'The star of my fate appears brighter to-day,' That it is but a brief and a mocking ray, To make darkness darker to-morrow. "And 'tis not to the vile and base alone That unchanging grief and sorrow are known, But as oft to the pure and guileless; And he, from whose fervid and generous lip, Gush words of the kindest fellowship, Of the same pure fountain may not sip In return, but it is sad and smileless! "Yes; such doomed mortals, alas! there be And mine is that self-same destiny; The fate of the lorn and lonely; For e'en in my childhood's early day, The comrades I sought would turn away; And of all the band, from the sportive play Was I thrust and excluded only. "When fifteen summers had passed o'er my head, I stood on the battle-field strewn with the dead. For the day of the Moslem's glory Had made me an orphan child, and there My sire was stretched; and his bosom bare Showed a gaping wound; and the flowing hair Of his head was damp and gory. "My sire was the chief of the patriot band, That had fought and died for their native land, When her rightful prince betrayed her; On his kith and kin did the vengeance fall Of the Mussulman foes--and each and all Were swept from the old ancestral hall, Save myself, by the fierce invader! "And I was spared from that blood-stained grave To be dragged away as the Moslem's slave, And bend to the foe victorious,-- But, O Greece! to thee does my memory turn Its longing eyes--and my heart-strings yearn To behold thee rise in thy might and spurn, As of yore, thy yoke inglorious! "But oh! whither has Spartan courage fled? And why, proud Athens! above thine head Is the Mussulman crescent gleaming? Have thine ancient memories no avail? And art thou not fired at the legend tale Which reminds thee how the whole world grew pale, And recoiled from thy banners streaming?"