 | The golden vase ; a gift for the young |  |
GARAFILIA.
Garafilia was a little Greek girl of uncommon beauty and loveliness, a native of the island of Ipsara, in the Mediterranean Sea.
Ipsara, or Psara, as it is sometimes spelt, is a small heart-shaped island of the Grecian Archipelago, about five miles and a half long, as many broad, and lying seven miles northwest of Scio.
The haughty Turks, who had made themselves lords of Greece, ruled with such cruel despotism, that, to escape their tyranny, and the galling yoke of Mohammedan bondage, a company of Greeks, about a hundred years ago, fled to this island, and colonized it.
At the time of the late desperate, but successful struggle of Greece for freedom from Mussulman sway, the history of which is, or may easily be, well-known to every American reader, Ipsara had upwards of six thousand inhabitants.
The valiant hero, Canaris, so distinguished for patriotism and bravery in the Greek revolu-
Her portrait was taken, I think in each costume, the American and the Turkish. After her decease an engraving from one of them was sent to me, with a request that I would write a poem to accompany it. I wrote the following, supposed to be the words of the speaking Picture:
GARAFILIA'S PICTURE.
At Garafilia's tale of wo,
I come her living looks to show,
And to your hearts to speak.
When called from earth, she left behind
Her semblance, that it might remind
Her friends so generous, good and kind,
Of the poor orphan Greek.
The cruel Turk his sabre draw;
When wrung with grief, and chilled with awe,
Poor Garafilia stood,
Where he, with aspect fierce and dread,
In pride held high his turbaned head;
And rushed with savage haste to shed
Her father's vital blood.
The widow's shriek—her helpless moan;
And cries of orphans left alone,
Mid ruthless foes; who came
With barbarous looks in hostile bands,
With gleaming blades in blood-stained hands,
Their parents slew, o'erran the lands
And drove them from their home.
And, marble-like, scarce felt the tear
Roll down it, as the Turk came near
To seize his helpless prey;
And from the widow's aching heart,
Her dear and only child to part;
Then bore them off to Smyrna's mart,
To wait the market-day.
No rest but on the chilling ground,
While the sad mother, pale and bound,
A hapless slave was sold.
These lips, with thirst and hunger dried,
One parting kiss were then denied,
As she forever turned aside,
Forced from her child for gold.
Had bargained with the Mussulman
For Garafilia, then began
To dawn a brighter day;
He made the purchase but to be
Her friend, her guardian, and to see
The little sufferer, blest and free,
Wipe all her tears away.
He sent her to this happy land,
To let her tender mind expand
Beneath Columbia's sky.
Then on her mild and modest face,
The placid smile resumed its place;
Her goodness, gentleness, and grace
Delighted every eye.
To which the foreign accent clung,
With melting sweetness, spoke or sung,
The gratitude make known,
Wherewith her tender heart o'erflowed
Towards Heaven, and to the friends who showed
Such kindness; and to whom she owed
Her path with blessings strewn.
The dearest ties were torn apart;
She thought of Smyrna's awful mart,
And of her mother's woes,
When sold and driven, she knew not where!
She thought of native land and air,
Of her dear, dying father's prayer,
And of his cruel foes.
Up by the root, when plucked, and borne
Beneath the shelter, to be worn
Upon its owner's breast,
'T was Garafilia's early doom
While yet in freshest morning bloom,
To wither for an early tomb,
Where now she lies at rest.
With reverence, o'er the meek one's head,
And the last tear has long been shed
From Garafilia's eye.
For the pure angels came to bear
Her spirit from this world of care
To bright and blissful regions, where
She lives, no more to die.
Her form within the grave at rest,
Me has she left as her bequest,
The dearest she could make,
To those whose kindness she had proved,
Till from their tender care removed;
And sure the picture will be loved
For Garafilia's sake.
This affecting and true history of Garafilia is written for the little girls of America; that they may learn to prize the blessings of their native country, and be grateful to the kind Providence who has given them birth and a home in a land free from the evils that filled the first years of the young and innocent Ipsariot.
| The golden vase ; a gift for the young | |