And, while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this delicious hour of joy
Young Love shall be my goblet-boy;
Folding his little golden vest,

With cinctures, round his snowy breast,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!

Swift as the wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal:
A scanty dust to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 't will leave behind.
Why do we shed the rose's bloom
Upon the cold, insensate tomb!
Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,
Affect the slumbering chill of death?
No, no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
But now, while every pulse is glowing,
Now let me breathe the balsam flowing;
Now let the rose with blush of fire,
Upon my brow its scent expire;

And bring the nymph with floating eye,
Oh! she will teach me how to die!
Yes, Cupid! ere my soul retire,
To join the blest Elysian choir,

With wine, and love, and blisses dear,
I'll make my own Elysium here!

Which may be thus paraphrased:

« And who art thou,» I waking cry, << That bid'st my blissful visions fly ?» « O gentle sire!» the infant said, << In pity take me to thy shed; Nor fear deceit a lonely child I wander o'er the gloomy wild. Chill drops the rain, and not a ray Illumes the drear and misty way!» I hear the baby's tale of woe;

I hear the bitter night-winds blow; And, sighing for his piteous fate, I trimm'd my lamp, and oped the gate. 'T was Love! the little wandering sprite, Ilis pinion sparkled through the night! I knew him by his bow and dart; I knew him by my fluttering heart! I take him in, and fondly raise The dying embers' cheering blaze; Press from his dank and clinging hair The crystals of the freezing air, And in my hand and bosom hold His little fingers thrilling cold. And now the embers' genial ray Had warm'd his anxious fears away;

I pray thee,» said the wanton child (My bosom trembled as he smiled),

I pray thee let me try my bow,

For through the rain I 've wander'd so, That much I fear the ceaseless shower Has injured its elastic power.» The fatal bow the urchin drew; Swift from the string the arrow flew; Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame, And to my very soul it came! «Fare thee well,» I heard him say, As laughing wild he wing'd away; « Fare thee well, for now I know The rain has not relax'd my bow; It still can send a maddening dart, As thou shalt own with all thy heart!

ODE XXXIV.'

OH thou, of all creation blest,

Sweet insect! that delight'st to rest

And who art thou, I waking cry,
That bid'st my blissful visions fly ?]

Anacreon appears to la been a voluptuary even in dreaming, by the lively regret which be presses at being disturbed from his visionary enjoyments. odes x. and 111VII.

'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite, etc.] See the han description of Cupid, by Moschus, in his first idyl.

1 Father Rapin, in a Latin ode addressed to the grasshop preserved some of the thoughts of our author:

O quæ virenti graminis in toro,
Cicada, blande sidis, et herbidos
Saltus oberras, otiosos

Ingeniosa ciere cantus.

Seu forte adultis floribus incubas,
Coli caducis ebria fletibus, etc.

Oh thou, that on the grassy bed
Which Nature's vernal hand has spread,
Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song,
The dewy herbs and leaves among!
Whether thou liest on springing flowers,
Drunk with the balmy morning-showers,

Or, etc.

See what Licetus says about grasshoppers, cap. 93 and 181

Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,
To drink the dew that morning drops,
And chirp thy song with such a glee,
That happiest kings may envy thee!
Whatever decks the velvet field,
Whate'er the circling seasons yield,
Whatever buds, whatever blows,
For thee it buds, for thee it grows.
Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear,
To him thy friendly notes are dear;
For thou art mild as matin dew,
And still, when summer's flowery hue
Begins to paint the bloomy plain,
We hear thy sweet prophetic strain;
Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear,
And bless the notes and thee revere!
The Muses love thy shrilly tone;
Apollo calls thee all his own;

T was he who gave that voice to thee,
Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.
Unworn by age's dim decline,
The fadeless blooms of youth are thine.
Melodious insect! child of earth!
In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth;
Exempt from every weak decay,
That withers vulgar frames away;
With not a drop of blood to stain
The current of thy purer vein;
So blest an age is pass'd by thee,
Thou seem'st a little deity!

ODE XXXV.

CUPID once upon a bed

Of roses laid his weary head;

And chirp thy song with such a glee, etc.] Some authors have afhrmed (says Madame Dacier), that it is only male grasshoppers which sing, and that the females are silent; and on this circumstance is founded a bon-mot of Xenarchus, the comic poet, who says EIT' Blow Of τεττιγες ουκ ευδαίμονες, εν ταις γυναιξιν ουδ' ότι ουν

œvac Evi' are not the grasshoppers happy in having dumb wives ?'. This note is originally Henry Stephen's; but I chose rather to make Madame Dacier my authority for it.

The Muses love thy shrilly tone, etc.] Phile, de Animal, Proprietat. calls this insect Mouais 01205, the darling of the Muses, and Mouroy opviy, the bird of the Muses; and we find Plato compared for his eloquence to the grasshopper, in the following punning lines of Timon, preserved by Diogenes Laertius:

Των παντων δ' ήγειτο πλατυςατος, αλλ' αγόρητης
Η δυσπης τεττιξιν ισογράφος, οἱ θ' εκαδήμου
Δενδρέα εφεζόμενοι οπα λειριοεσσαν ιείσι.

This last line is borrowed from Homer's Iliad, A. where there occars the very same simile.

Melodious insect! child of earth' Longepierre has quoted the two first lines of an epigram of Antipater, from the first book of the Anthologia, where he prefers the grasshopper to the swan:

Αρκει τέττιγας μεθυσαι δρόσος, αλλά πιόντες

Αειδειν κύκνων εισι γεγωνότεροι.

In dew, that drops from morning's wings,

The gay Cicada sipping floats;

And, drunk with dew, his matin sings

Sweeter than any cygnet's notes.

• Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyl. but is very inferior, I think, to his original, în delicacy of point and naïveté of expression. Spenser in one of his smaller compositions, has

Luckless urchin not to see

Within the leaves a slumbering bee!
The bee awaked-with anger wild
The bee awaked and stung the child.
Loud and piteous are his cries;
To Venus quick he runs, he flies!
« Oh mother!-I am wounded through-
I die with pain-in sooth I do!
Stung by some little angry thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing-
A bee it was-for once, I know,
I heard a rustic call it so.»>

sported more diffusely on the same subject. The poem to which 1 allude begins thus:

Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbering

All in his mother's lap.

A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring,
About him flew by hap, etc.

In Almeloveen's collection of epigrams, there is one by Luxorius, correspondent somewhat with the turn of Anacreon, where Love complains to his mother of being wounded by a rose,

The ode before us is the very flower of simplicity. The infantine complainings of the little god, and the natural and impressive reflections which they draw from Venus, are beauties of inimitable grace. I hope I shall be pardoned for introducing another Greek Anacreontic of Monsieur Menage, not for its similitude to the subject of this ode, but for some faint traces of this natural simplicity, which it appears to me to have preserved.

Έρως ποτ' εν χορείαις
Των παρθένων αυτον
Тит мол φίλην Κορίνναν
Ως είδεν, ὡς προς αυτήν
Προσέδραμε τραχηλο
Διδύμας το χειρας άττων
Φιλεί με, μητερ, είπε.
Καλούμενη Κορίννα
Murup, spuspices,
Ως παρθενος μεν ούσα.
Κ' αυτος δε δυσχεραίνων,
Ως ομμασι πλανηθείς,
Έρως ερυθριάζει.
Εγω δὲ οἱ παραςας,
Μη δυσχεραινέ, φημι.
Κύπριν τε και Κορίνναν
Διαγνώσαι ουκ έχουσι
Και οἱ βλέποντες οξυ.

As dancing o'er the enamell'd plain,
The flow'ret of the virgin train,
My soul's Corinna, lightly play'd,
Young Cupid saw the graceful maid.
He saw, and in a moment flew,
And round her neck his arms he threw;
And said, with smiles of infant joy,

Oh! kiss me, mother, kiss thy boy ! «
Unconscious of a mother's name,
The modest virgin blush'd with shame!
And angry Cupid, scarce believing
That vision could be so deceiving,
Thas to mistake his Cyprian dame,
The little infant blush'd with shame.
Be not ashamed, my boy, I cried,
For I was lingering by his side;
Corinna and thy lovely mother,
Believe me, are so like each other,
That clearest eyes are oft betray'd,
And take thy Venus for the maid.

Zitto, in his Cappriciosi Pensieri, has translated this ode of Ana

Thus he spoke, and she the while
Heard him with a soothing smile;
Then said, «My infant, if so much
Thou feel the little wild bee's touch,
How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be,
The hapless heart that's stung by thee!»

ODE XXXVI.'

Ir hoarded gold possess'd a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore!
And every day should swell my store;

That when the Fates would send their minion,
To waft me off on shadowy pinion,

I might some hours of life obtain,
And bribe him back to hell again.
But, since we ne'er can charm away
The mandate of that awful day,
Why do we vainly weep at fate,
And sigh for life's uncertain date?
The light of gold can ne'er illume
The dreary midnight of the tomb!
And why should I then pant for treasures?
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures;
The goblet rich, the board of friends,
Whose flowing souls the goblet blends!
Mine be the nymph whose form reposes
Seductive on that bed of roses;
And oh! be mine the soul's excess,
Expiring in her warm caress!

ODE XXXVII.2

"T WAS night, and many a circling bowl
Had deeply warm'd my swimming soul;

1 Monsieur Fontenelle has translated th's ode, in his dialogue between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, where he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet.

The German imitators of it are, Lessing, in his poem 'Gestern Brüder, etc.' Gleim, in the ode An den Tod,' and Schmidt in der Poet. Blumenl. Gotting. 1783, p. 7.• Degen.

That when the Fates would send their minion,

To waft me off on shadowy pinion, etc.] The commentators, who are so fond of disputing a de lana caprina, have been very busy on the authority of the phrase iv' αν θανειν επελθη. The reading οι ν' αν θανατος επελθη, which De Medenbach proposes in his Amanitates Litteraria, was already hinted by Le Fevre, who seldom suggests any thing worth notice.

The goblet rich, the board of friends,

Whose flowing souls the goblet blends'] This communion of friendship, which sweetened the bowl of Anacreon, has not been forgotten by the author of the following scholium, where the blessings of life are enumerated with proverbial simplicity. "Traver Mev αρισον ανδρι θνητω. Δεύτερον δε, καλον φυήν γ evestai. Το τρίτον δε, πλουτειν αδόλως. Kaι TO TETAPTOV, συνήβαν μετά των φίλων.

Of mortal blessings here, the first is health,
And next, those charms by which the eye we move;
The third is wealth, unwounding, guiltless wealth,
And then, an intercourse with those we love!

1 Compare with this ode the beautiful poem, der Traum of Uz.'» Degen.

Monsieur Le Fevre, in a note upon this ode, enters into an elaborate and learned justification of drunkenness; and this is probably

As lull'd in slumber I was laid, Bright visions o'er my fancy play'd! With virgins, blooming as the dawn, I seem'd to trace the opening lawn; Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew, We flew, and sported as we flew! Some ruddy striplings, young and sleek, With blush of Bacchus on their cheek, Saw me trip the flowery wild With dimpled girls, and slyly smiledSmiled indeed with wanton glee; But ah!t was plain they envied me. And still I flew-and now I caught The panting nymphs, and fondly thought To kiss-when all my dream of joys, Dimpled girls and ruddy boys, All were gone! « Alas!» I said, Sighing for the illusions fled,

Sleep! again my joys restore, Oh! let me dream them o'er and o'er!»>

ODE XXXVIII.

LET us drain the nectar'd bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!
Him, who instructs the sons of earth
To thrid the tangled dance of mirth;
Him, who was nursed with infaut Love,
And cradled in the Paphian grove;
Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms
Has fondled in her twining arms.

the cause of the severe reprehension which I believe be suffered in
his Anacreon. Fuit olim fateor (says he, in a note upon Longinus
cum Sapphonem amabam. Sed ex quo illa me perditissima fam
pene miserum perdidit cum sceleratissimo suo congerrone (A
tem dico, si nescis Lector), noli sperare, etc. etc. He addaces
this ode the authority of Plato, who allowed ebriety, at the Dier
festivals, to men arrived at their fortieth year. He likewise qts
the following line from Alexis, which he says no one, whe
tally ignorant of the world, can hesitate to confess the truth of
Ουδείς φιλοπότης εσιν άνθρωπος κακός.

No lover of drinking was ever a vicious man.. -when all my dream of joys, Dimpled girls and ruddy boys,

All were gone!] Nonnus says of Bacchus, almost in the same that Anacreon uses,

From him that dream of transport flows,
Which sweet intoxication knows;
With him the brow forgets to darkle,
And brilliant graces learn to sparkle.
Behold! my boys a goblet bear,
Whose sunny foam bedews the air.
Where are now the tear, the sigh?
To the winds they fly, they fly!
Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking,
Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!
Oh! can the tears we lend to thought
In life's account avail us aught?
Can we discern, with all our lore,
The path we 're yet to journey o'er?
No, no, the walk of life is dark,
T is wine alone can strike a spark!
Then let me quaff the foamy tide,
And through the dance meandering glide;
Let me imbibe the spicy breath
Of odours chafed to fragrant death;
Or from the kiss of love inhale
A more voluptuous, richer gale!
To souls that court the phantom Care,
Let him retire and shroud him there;
While we exhaust the nectar'd bowl,
And swell the choral song of soul
To him, the God who loves so well
The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!

'Tis wine alone can strike a spark !] The brevity of life allows arguments for the voluptuary as well as the moralist. Among many parallel passages which Longepierre has adduced, I shall content myself with this epigram from the Anthologia.

Λουσάμενοι, Προδίκη, πυκασώμεθα, και τον άκρατον
Ελκωμεν, κυλικάς μείζονας αράμενοι.
*Ραιος ὁ χαιροντων εςι βίος. ειτα τα λοιπα
Γηρας κωλύσει, και το τέλος θάνατος.

Of which the following is a loose paraphrase:

Fly, my beloved, to yonder stream,

We'll plunge us from the noontide beain!
Then call the rose's bumid bad,
And dip it in our goblet's flood.
Our age of bliss, my nymph, shall fly
As sweet, though passing, as that sigh
Which seems to whisper o'er your lip,

Come, while you may, of rapture sip..
For age will steal the rosy form,

And chill the pulse, which trembles warm!
And death-alas! that hearts, which thrill
Like yours and mine, should e'er be still!

ODE XL.

I KNOW that Heaven ordains me here
To run this mortal life's career;
The scenes which I have journey'd o'er
Return no more-alas! no more;
And all the path I've yet to go

I neither know nor ask to know.
Then surely, Care, thou canst not twine
Thy fetters round a soul like mine;
No, no, the heart that feels with me
Can never be a slave to thee!
And oh! before the vital thrill,
Which trembles at my heart, is still,
I'll gather joy's luxurious flowers,
And gild with bliss my fading hours;
Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom,
And Venus dance me to the tomb!

ODE XLI.

WHEN Spring begems the dewy scene, How sweet to walk the velvet green, And hear the Zephyr's languid sighs, As o'er the scented mead he flies! How sweet to mark the pouting vine, Ready to fall in tears of wine;

Ne regardez que mon amour.
Peut-être en serez vous émue:
Il est jeune, et n'est que du jour,
Belle Iris, que je vous ai vue.

Fair and young, thou bloomest now,

And I full many a year have told;
But read the heart and not the brow,
Thou shalt not find my love is old.
My love's a child; and thou canst say
How much his little age may be,
For he was born the very day

That first I set my eyes on thee!

No, no, the heart that feels with me,

Can never be a slave to thee!] Loogepierre quotes an epigram here from the Anthologia, on account of the similarity of a particular phrase; it is by no means anacreontic, but has an interesting simplicity which induced me to paraphrase it, and may atone for its intrusion.

Ελπις, και συ, τυχη, μεγα χαίρετε, τον λιμεν' εὗρον.
Ουδέν εμοι χ ̓ ὑμῖν. παίζετε τους μετ' εμε.

At length to Fortune, and to you,
Delusive Hope! a last adieu.
The charm that once beguiled is o'er,
And I have reach'd my destined shore!
Away, away, your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts,
And you will smile at their believing.

And they shall weep at your deceiving!

Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom,

And Venus dance me to the tomb!] The same commentator bas quoted an epitaph, written upon our poet by Julian, where he makes bim give the precepts of good-fellowship even from the tomb. Πολλακι μεν τοδ' αείσα, και εκ τυμβου δε βοήσω Πίνετε, πριν ταύτην αμφιβάλησθε κονιν.

This lesson oft in life I sung,

And from my grave I still shall cry,

• Drink, mortal! drink, while time is young. Ere death has made thee cold as I..

And with the maid whose every sigh
Is love and bliss, entranced to lie
Where the embowering branches meet-
Oh! is not this divinely sweet?

ODE XLII.'

Yes, be the glorious revel mine,

Where humour sparkles from the wine!
Around me let the youthful choir
Respond to my beguiling lyre;
And while the red cup circles round,
Mingle in soul as well as sound!

Let the bright nymph, with trembling eye,
Beside me all in blushes lie;

And, while she weaves a frontlet fair
Of hyacinth to deck my hair,

Oh! let me snatch her sidelong kisses,
And that shall be my bliss of blisses!
My soul, to festive feeling true,
One pang of envy never knew;

And little has it learn'd to dread

The gall that Envy's tongue can shed.
Away-I hate the slanderous dart,
Which steals to wound the unwary heart;
And oh! I hate, with all my soul,
Discordant clamours o'er the bowl,
Where every cordial heart should be
Attuned to peace and harmony.
Come, let us hear the soul of
Expire the silver harp along:
And through the dance's ringlet move,
With maidens mellowing into love;
Thus simply happy, thus at peace,
Sure such a life should never cease!

song

ODE XLIII.

WHILE our rosy fillets shed Blushes o'er each fervid head,

And with the maid, whose every sigh

Is love and bliss, etc.] Thus Horace:
Quid habes illius, illius

Que spirabat amores,
Que me surpuerat mihi.

And does there then remain but this,
And hast thou lost each rosy ray
Of her, who breathed the soul of bliss,
And stole me from myself away!

His

1 The character of Anacreon is here very strikingly depicted. love of social, harmonized pleasures is expressed with a warmth, amiable and endearing. Among the epigrams imputed to Anacreon is the following; it is the only one worth translation, and it breathes the same sentiments with this ode:

Ου φίλος, ὃς κρητήρι παρα πλέω οινοποτάζων,
Νεικέα και πολεμον δακρυόεντα λέγει.

Αλλ' όςις Μουσέων τε, και αγλαια δωρ. Αφροδίτης
Εύμμιση ων, ερατης μνήσκεται ευφροσύνης.

When to the lip the brimming cup is press'd,
And hearts are all afloat upon the stream,
Then banish from any board the unpolish'd quest
Who makes the feats of war his batharous theme.
But bring the man, who o'er his goblet wreathes
The use's Lurel wuh the Cyprian flower:
Ob give me him wh se hear expansive breathes
All the retinements of the social hour.

many a cup and

With
many a smile
The festal moments we beguile.
And while the harp, impassion'd, flings
Tuneful rapture from the strings,
Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs,
Through the dance luxuriant swims,
Waving, in her snowy hand,
The leafy Bacchanalian wand,
Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
Shakes its tresses to her sighs!

A youth, the while, with loosen'd hair
Floating on the listless air,
Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone,
A tale of woes, alas! his own;
And then, what nectar in his sigh,
As o'er his lip the murmurs die!
Surely never yet has been
So divine, so blest a scene!
Has Cupid left the starry sphere,
To wave his golden tresses here?
Oh yes! and Venus, queen of wiles,
And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles,
All, all are here, to hail with me
The Genius of Festivity!

And while the harp, impassion'd, flings Tuneful rapture from the strings, etc.] On the barbiton a bout # authorities may be collected, which, after all, leave us ignorant để the nature of the instrument. There is scarcely any point upon what er are so totally uninformed as the music of the ancients. The ausbers 's' extant upon the subject are, I imagine, little understood; but certains if one of their moods was a progression by quarter-tones, which m are told was the nature of the enharmonic scale, simplicity was by a means the characteristic of their melody; for this is a nicety of pgression of which modern music is not susceptible.