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Του αυτού, εις τον αυτόν.

Τύμβος Ανακρείοντος. ὁ Τηῖος ενθαδε κυκνος
Ενδει, χἡ παιδων ζωροτατη μαινη.
Ακμην λειριοεντι μελίζεται αμφι Βαθυλλω
Ίμερα· και κισσου λευκος οδωδε λιθος.
Ουδ' Αίδης 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 αυτου, εις τον αυτον.

Ξεινε, τάφον παρα λιτον Ανακρείοντος αμείβων,
Ει τι τοι εκ βιβλων ηλθεν εμων οφελος,
Σπείσον εμη σποδια, σπεισον γανός, οφρα κεν οίνω
Όστια γήθησε ταμα νοτιζομενα,

Ως ὁ Διονύσου μεμελημένος ουασι κωμός,
Ως ὁ φιλάκρητου συντροφος ἁρμονίης,

Μηδε καταφθίμενος Βακχου διχα τουτον ὑποίσω
Τον γενεη μερόπων χωρον οφειλομενον.

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 αυτου, εις τον αυτόν.

Ευδείς εν φθιμενοισιν, Ανακρεον, εσθλα πονησας
ευδει δ ̓ ἡ γλυκερη νυκτιλαλος κιθαρα,
ένδει και Σμέρδις, το Ποίων εας, ὦ συ μελισδων
βαρβιτ', ανεκρούου νεκταρ εναρμόνιον.
ηΐθεου γαρ Ερωτος εφυς σκοπος· ες δε σε μουνον
τόξα τε και σκολιας ειχεν ἑκηβολίας.

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

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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-sa

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