A Relic Of The Athenian Forum.

When in 1824 Lord Byron died upon Greek soil, striving to free the Hellenic nation from the Turkish yoke, the Athenians wished his body to be buried in this temple. No wonder they were grateful to him, for the action of that ardent admirer of the Greeks in hastening to their land to consecrate his life and fortune to the cause of liberty, was not, as some have thought, unpractical and sentimental. Byron, unlike many other poets, was no mere dreamer. He could, when he desired, descend from Poesy's empyrean to the practical realities of life; and during his short stay in Greece, whether he was securing loans, conciliating angry chiefs, or giving counsel to the government, he showed the tact and firmness of an able statesman.

Temple Of Theseus.

As if, then, this classic temple were a Greek sarcophagus, within which was enshrined the form of the immortal dead, I seemed to see among its marble columns that noble statue representing Byron at Missolonghi, the little town where, with such fatal haste, his life was sacrificed. It would be difficult to imagine anything more distressing than Byron's last illness. He was in a wretched, malarial district, utterly devoid of comforts. No woman's hand was there to smooth his brow or give to him the thousand little comforts which only woman's tender thoughtfulness can understand. Convinced at last by the distress of his servants that his death was near, he called his faithful valet, Fletcher, to his side, and spoke with great earnestness, but very indistinctly, for nearly twenty minutes. Finally he said, with relief, "Now I have told you all".

"My lord," replied Fletcher, "I have not understood a word you have been saying." "Not understood me?" exclaimed Lord Byron, with a look of the utmost distress. "What a pity! for it is too late; all is over!"

"I hope not," answered Fletcher, "but the Lord's will be done".

"Yes, not mine," said the poet; and soon after murmured, "Now I shall go to sleep." These were the last words of Byron, for, with a weary sigh, he then sank into that peaceful slumber in which his spirit gradually loosed its hold on earth, and drifted outward into the Unknown.

Byron At Missolonghi.

A Ruined Capital.

The more modern part of Athens recalls happier recollections of Byron. When he came here in his youth, he not only wrote those magnificent stanzas in "Childe Harold," which are among the choicest treasures of our English tongue, but also composed that graceful poem, "Maid of Athens," each verse of which ends with Greek words that signify, "My Life, I love thee!" It was addressed to the eldest daughter of the Greek lady in whose house he lodged. Little did that fair Athenian girl imagine that his verses would make her known throughout the world. Yet so it was. No actual likeness of her can be given, but we may well believe that she, in some respects, resembled a typical Grecian maiden of to-day.

Maid Of Athens.

"By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each AEgean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe,

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, 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!

The tourist who visits Greece to-day finds much to admire in the modern city which ancient Athens wears now like a jewel on her withered breast. It is a bright, attractive place. When I revisited it a few years ago, it seemed to me by contrast with the Orient a miniature Paris. Yet this is all of very recent growth. Half a century ago the devastation wrought here by the Turks had left the city desolate. Hardly a house in the whole town was habitable. But now we find a city of one hundred and thirty thousand people, with handsome residences, public squares, clean streets, and several public buildings that would adorn any capital in the world.