EPIGRAMS OF THE ANTHOLOGIA.

[AMONG the Epigrams of the Anthologia, there are some panegyrics on Anacreon, which I had translated, and originally intended as a kind of Coronis to the work; but I found, upon consideration, that they wanted variety; a frequent recurrence of the same thought, within the limits of an epitaph, to which they are confined, would render a collection of them rather uninteresting. I shall take the liberty, however, of subjoining a few, that I may not appear to have totally neglected those elegant tributes to the reputation of Anacreon. The four epigrams which I give are inputed to Antipater Sidonius. They are rendered, perhaps, with too much freedom; but, designing a translation of all that are on the subject, I imagined it was necessary to enliven their uniformity by sometimes indulging in the liberties of paraphrase.]

Αντιπάτρου Σιδωνιον, εις Ανακρέοντα.

Θαλλοι τετρακορυμβος, Ανακρέον, αμφι σε κισσος
άβρα σε λειμώνων πορφυρέων πεταλα
πηγαι ♪ αργινόεντος αναθλίβοιντο γαλακτος,
ευωδες δ' απο γης ἡδυ χεοιτο μεθυ,

οφρα με τοι σποδια τε και οστεα τερψιν αρηται,
ει δς τις φθιμενοις χρίμπτεται ευφρόσυνα,
ω το φίλον στερξας, φιλε, βαρβιτον, ω συν αοιδα
παντα διάπλωσας και συν ερωτι βίον.

AROUND the tomb, oh bard divine!
Where soft thy hallow'd brow reposes,
Long may the deathless ivy twine,
And summer pour her waste of roses!
And many a fount shall there distil,
And many a rill refresh the flowers;
But wine shall gush in every rill,

And every fount be milky showers.
Thus, shade of him, whom Nature taught
To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure,
Who gave to love his warmest thought,
Who gave to love his fondest measure!

Thus, after death, if spirits feel,

Thou may'st, from odours round thee streaming,

A pulse of past enjoyment steal,

And live again in blissful dreaming!

Του αυτού, εις τον αυτόν.

Τύμβος Ανακρείοντος ὁ Τηϊος ενθαδε κυκνος
Ενδει χἡ παίδων ζωρότατη μαινη.
Ακμην λειριοεντι μελίζεται αμφι Βαθύλλω
Ιμερα· και κισσου λευκος οδωδε λίθος.
Ουδ' Αΐδης σοι ερωτας απέσβεσεν εν δ' Αχέροντος,
Ων, όλος ωδινεις Κυπριδι θερμότερη.

HERE sleeps Anacreon, in this ivied shade.;
Here, mute in death, the Teian swan is laid.
And yet, oh Bard ! thou art not mute in death,
Still, still we catch thy lyre's delicious breath;
And still thy songs of soft Bathylla bloom,
Green as the ivy round the mouldering tomb!
Nor yet has death obscur'd thy fire of love,
Still, still it lights thee thro' the Elysian grove ;
And dreams are thine, that bless th' elect alone,
And Venus calls thee ev'n in death her own!

Του αυτού, εις τον αυτόν.

Ξεινε, τάφον παρα λιτον Ανακρείοντος αμείβων,
Ε, τι σοι εκβλων ήλθεν εμών οφελος,
Σπείσον εμπ σποδιη, σπεισον γανός, ούρα κεν οίνω
Οστεα γηθησε ταμα νοτίζομε α,

Ως ὁ Διονύσου μεμελημένος ουασι κώμος,
Ως ὁ φιλάκρητου συντροφος ἁρμονίης,
Μηδε καταφθίμενος Βακχου διχα τουτον ὑποισω
Τον γενεη μερόπων χωρον οφειλόμενον.

On stranger ! if Anacreon's shell
Has ever taught thy heart to swell
With passion's throb or pleasure's sigh,
In pity turn, as wandering nigh,
And drop thy goblet's richest tear
In exquisite libation here!
So shall my sleeping ashes thrill
With visions of enjoyment still.

I cannot ev'n in death resign
The festal joys that once were mine,
When Harmony pursu'd my ways,
And Bacchus listened to my lays.
Oh! if delight could charm no more,
If all the goblet's bliss were o'er,
When fate had once our doom decreed,
Then dying would be death indeed!
Nor could I think, unblest by wine,
Divinity itself divine!

Του αυτού, εις τον αυτον.

Ενδεις εν φθιμενοισιν, Ανακρεον, εσθλα πονήσας
ευδει δ ̓ ἡ γλυκερη νυκτίλαλος κιθαρα,
ευδει και Σμέρδις, το Ποθών ze, ὦ συ μελισδων
βαρβιτ', ανεκρούου νεκταρ εναρμόνιον.
ηίθεου γαρ Ερωτος έφυς σκοπος· ες δε σε μουνον
τοξα τε και σκολιας ειχεν ἑκηβολιας.

Ar length thy golden hours have wing'd their flight,
And drowsy death that eyelid steepeth;

Thy harp, that whisper'd through each lingering night,
Now mutely in oblivion sleepeth!

She too, for whom that harp profusely shed
The purest nectar of its numbers,

She, the young spring of thy desires, has fled,
And with her blest Anacreon slumbers!

Farewell! thou hadst a pulse for every dart
That Love could scatter from his quiver;
And every woman found in thee a heart,

Which thou, with all thy soul, could'st give her!

THE TWOPENNY POST-BAG,

OR

INTERCEPTED LETTERS.

PREFACE.

THE Bag, from which the following Letters are selected, was dropped by a Twopenny Postman about two months since, and picked up by an emissary of the Society for the S-pp-ss-n of V-e, who, supposing it might materially assist the private researches of that Institution, immediately took it to his employers, and was rewarded handsomely for his trouble. Such a treasury of secrets was worth a whole host of informers; and, accordingly, like the Cupids of the poet (if I may use so profane a simile) who "fell at odds about the sweet-bag of a bee," those venerable Suppressors almost fought with each other for the honour and delight of first ransacking the Post-Bag. Unluckily, however, it turned out upon examination, that the discoveries of profligacy which it enabled them to make, lay chiefly in those upper regions of society, which their well-bred regulations forbid them to molest or meddle with. In consequence, they gained but very few victims by their prize, and, after lying for a week or two under Mr H-tch-d's counter, the Bag, with its violated contents, was sold for a trifle to a friend of mine.

It happened that I had been just then seized with an ambition (having never tried the strength of my wing but in a Newspaper) to publish something or other in the shape of a Book; and it occurred to me that, the present being such a letter-writing era, a few of these Twopenny Post Epistles, turned into easy verse, would be as light and popular a task as I could possibly select for a commencement. I did not think it prudent, however, to give too many Letters at first, and, accordingly, have been obliged (in order to eke out a sufficient number of pages) to reprint some o those TRIFLES, which had already appeared in the public journals. As in the battles of ancient times, the shades of the departed were sometimes seen among the combatants, so I thought

* Herrick.

I might remedy the thinness of my ranks, by conjuring up a few dead and forgotten ephemerons to fill them.

Such are the motives and accidents that led to the present publication; and as this is the first time my Muse has ever ventured out of the go-cart of a Newspaper, though I feel all a parent's delight at seeing little Miss go alone, I am also not without a parent's anxiety, lest an unlucky fall should be the consequence of the experiment; and I need not point out the many living instances there are, of Muses that have suffered severely in their heads, from taking too early and rashly to their feet. Besides, a Book is so very different a thing from a Newspaper!-in the former, your doggerel, without either company or shelter, must stand shivering in the middle of a bleak white page by itself; whereas, in the latter, it is comfortably backed by advertisements, and has sometimes even a speech of Mr St-ph-n's, or something equally warm, for a chauffe-pie; so that, in general, the very reverse of " laudatur et alget" is its destiny.

Ambition, however, must run some risks, and I shall be very well satisfied if the reception of these few Letters should have the effect of sending me to the Post-Bag for more.

LETTER I.

FROM THE PR-NC-SS CHE OF W

B-RB-A A-SHL-Y.*

-S TO THE LADY

My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shock'd, I'm afraid,
When you hear the sad rumpus your ponies have made;
Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date)

No nags ever made such a stir in the state!

Lord Eld-n first heard-and as instantly pray'd he

To God and his King-that a Popish young lady

(For though you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year, It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear)

Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom,

Two priest-ridden ponies, just landed from Rome,

And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks,

That the dome of St Paul's was scarce safe from their kicks

Off at once to papa, in a flurry, he flies

For papa always does what these statesmen advise,

On condition that they'll be, in turn, so polite

As, in no case whate'er, to advise him too right

66

Pretty doings are here, Sir (he angrily cries,

While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise), ""Tis a scheme of the Romanists,

This young lady, who is a Roman Catholic, has lately made a present of some beautiful ponies to the Pr-nc-ss.