ODE V.1

SCULPTOR, wouldst thou glad my soul,
Grave for me an ample bowl,
Worthy to shine in hall or bower,
When spring-time brings the reveller's hour.
Grave it with themes of chaste design,
Fit for a simple board like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites
In which religious zeal delights;
Nor any tale of tragic fate
Which History shudders to relate.
No-cull thy fancies from above,
Themes of heav'n and themes of love.
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy,
Distil the grape in drops of joy,
And while he smiles at every tear,
Let warm-eyed Venus, dancing near,
With spirits of the genial bed,

The dewy herbage deftly tread.

Let Love be there, without his arms,

In timid nakedness of charms;

2

And all the Graces, link'd with Love,

Stray, laughing, through the shadowy grove;

1 Degen thinks that this ode is a more modern mitation of the preceding. There is a poem by Cælius Calcagninus, in the manner of both, where he gives instructions about the making of a ring.

Tornabis annulum mihi

Et fabre, et apte, et commode, &c. &c.

2 Let Love be there, without his arms, &c.] Thus Sannazaro in the eclogue of Gallicio nell' Arcadia :

Vegnan li vaghi Amori
Senza fiammelle, è strali,
Scherzando insieme pargoletti e nudi.
Fluttering on the busy wing,

A train of naked Cupids came,
Sporting around in harmless ring,
Without a dart, without a flame.

And thus in the Pervigilium Veneris :

Ite nymphæ, posuit arma, feriatus est amor.
Love is disarm'd-ye nymphs, in safety stray,
Your bosoms now may boast a holiday!

3 But ah! if there Apollo toys,

1 tremble for the rosy boys.) An allusion to the fable, that Apollo had killed his beloved boy Hyacinth, while playing with him at quoits. "This (says M. La Fosse) is assuredly the sense of the text, and it cannot admit of any other."

The Italian translators, to save themselves the trouble of a note, have taken the liberty of making Anacreon himself explain this fable. Thus Salvini, the most literal of any of them:

Ma con lor non giuochi Apollo;
Che in fiero risco

Col duro disco

A Giacinto fiaccò il collo.

This beautiful fiction, which the commentators have attributed to Julian, a royal poet, the Vatican MS. pronounces to be the genuine offspring of Anacreon. It has, indeed, all the features of the parent:

While rosy boys disporting round,
In circlets trip the velvet ground.
But ah! if there Apollo toys,
I tremble for the rosy boys."

ODE VI.

As late I sought the spangled bowers,
To cull a wreath of matin flowers,
Where many an early rose was weeping
found the urchin Cupid sleeving.
caught the boy, a goblet's tice
Was richly mantling by my side,
I caught him by his downy wing,
And whelm'd him in the racy spring.
Then drank I down the poison'd bowl,
And Love now nestles in my soul
Oh yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,
I feel him fluttering in my breast.

et facile insciis Noscitetur ab omnibus.

• Where many an early rose was weeping, I found the urchin Cupid sleeping.) This idea is prettily imitated in the following epigram by Andreas Naugerius :

Florentes dum forte vagans mea Hyella per hortos
Texit odoratis lilia cana rosis,

Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit Amorem
Et simul annexis floribus implicuit.
Luctatur primo, et contra nitentibus alis
Indomitus tentat solvere vincla puer:
Mox ubi lacteolas et dignas matre papillas
Vidit et ora ipsos nata movere Deos,
Impositosque comæ ambrosios ut sentit odores
Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs;

"I (dixit) mea, quære novum tibi, mater, Amorem
Imperio sedes hæc erit apta meo."

As fair Hyella, through the bloomy grove,
A wreath of many mingled flow'rets wove,
Within a rose a sleeping Love she found,
And in the twisted wreaths the baby bound.
Awhile he struggled, and impatient tried
To break the rosy bonds the virgin tied;
But when he saw her bosom's radiant swell,
Her features, where the eye of Jove might dwell;
And caught th' ambrosial odors of her hair,
Rich as the breathings of Arabian air;

"Oh! mother Venus," (said the raptured child,
By charms, of more than mortal bloom, beguiled,)
"Go, seek another boy, thou'st lost thine own,
"Hyella's arms shall now be Cupid's throne!"

This epigram of Naugerius is imitated by Lodovico Dolce in a poem, beginning

Mentre raccoglie hor uno, hor altro fiore
Vicina a un rio di chiare et lucid' onde,
Lidia, &c. &c.

ODE VII.1

THE women tell me every day
That all my bloom has pass'd away.
"Behold," the pretty wantons cry,
"Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they're withering too!"
Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give.

But oh! be mine the rosy wreath,
Its freshness o'er my brow to breathe;
Be mine the rich perfumes that flow,
To cool and scent my locks of snow.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er would shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then-
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimm'd their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
With mantling cup and cordial smile;
And shed from each new bowl of wine
The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine.
For Death may come, with brow unpleasant.
May come, when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us-drink no more!

ODE VIII.4

I CARE not for the idle state

Of Persia's king, the rich, the great:

I envy not the monarch's throne,

Nor wish the treasured gold my own.

1 Alberti has imitated this ode in a poem, beginning

Nisa mi dice e Clori

Tirsi, tu se' pur veglio.

2 Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,

I'm sure I neither know nor care;) Henry Stephen very justly remarks the elegant negligence of expression in the original here:

Εγω δε τας κόμας μεν, Ειτ εισιν, ειτ' απήλθον, Ουκ οίδα,

And Longepierre has adduced from Catullus, what he thinks a similar instance of this simplicity of manner:

Ipse quis sit, utrum sit, an non sit, id quoque nescit. Longepierre was a good critic; but perhaps the line which he has selected is a specimen of a carelessness not very commendable. At the same time I confess, that none of the Latin poets have ever appeared to me so capable of imitating the graces of Anacreon as Catullus, if he had not allowed a depraved imagination to hurry him so often into mere vulgar

licentiousness.

3 That still as death approaches nearer, The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;) Pontanus has a very delicate thought upon the subject of old age:

Quid rides, Matrona? senem quid temnis amantem ?
Quisquis amat nullâ est conditione senex.

Why do you scorn my want of youth,
And with a smile my brow behold ?
Lady dear! believe this truth,

ODE IX.

I PRAY thee, by the gods above,"

Give me the mighty bowl I love,

Ου μοι τα Γυγεω του πολυχρυσου μέλει." BARNES. In one of the monkish imitators of Anacreon we find the same thought:

Ψύχην εμην ερωτω,

Γι σοι θέλεις γενεσθαι;
Θέλεις. Γύγεω τα και τα;

Be mine the rich perfumes that flow,

To cool and scent my locks of snow.] In the original, μυροισι καταβρεχειν ὑπηνην. On account of this idea of perfuming the beard, Cornelius de Pauw pronounces the whole ode to be the spurious production of some lascivious monk, who was nursing his beard with unguents. But he should have known, that this was an ancient eastern custom, which, if we may believe Savary, still exists: "Vous voyez, Monsieur, (says this traveller,) que l'usage antique de se parfumer la tête et la barbe,* célébré par le prophète Roi, subsiste encore de nos jours." Lettre 12. Savary likewise cites this very ode of Anacreon. Angerianus has not thought the idea inconsistent, having introduced it in the following lines:

Hæc mihi cura, rosis et cingere tempora myrto,
Et curas multo delapidare mero.

Hæc mihi cura, comas et barbam tingere succo
Assyrio et dulces continuare jocos.

This be my care, to wreathe my brow with flowers,
To drench my sorrows in the ample bowl;

To pour rich perfumes o'er my beard in showers,

And give full loose to mirth and joy of soul!

The poet is here in a phrensy of enjoyment, and it is, in

*deed, "amabilis insania;"

Furor di poesia,

Di lascivia, e di vino,

Triplicato furore,

Baccho, Apollo, et Amore.

Ritratti del Cavalier Marino.

This is truly, as Scaliger expresses it,
-Insanire dulce

Et sapidum furere furorem

"Sicut unguentum in capite quod descendit in barbam Aaronis, Pseaume cxxxiii."

And let me sing, in wild delight,
"I will-I will be mad to-night!"
Alcmæon once, as legends tell,
Was phrensied by the fiends of hell;
Orestes too, with naked tread,
Frantic paced the mountain-head;
And why? a murder'd mother's shade
Haunted them still where'er they stray'd.
But ne'er could I a murderer be,.
The grape alone shall bleed by me;
Yet can I shout, with wild delight,
"I will-I will be mad to-night."

Alcides' self, in days of yore, Imbrued his hands in youthful gore, And brandish'd, with a maniac joy, The quiver of th' expiring boy: And Ajax, with tremendous shield, Infuriate scour'd the guiltless field. But I, whose hands no weapon ask, No armor but this joyous flask; The trophy of whose frantic hours Is but a scatter'd wreath of flowers, Ev'n I can sing with wild delight, "I will-I will be mad to-night!"

ODE X.1

How am I to punish thee,

For the wrong thou'st done to me,
Silly swallow, prating thing2-
Shall I clip that wheeling wing?
Or, as Tereus did, of old,
(So the fabled tale is told,)
Shall I tear that tongue away,
Tongue that utter'd such a lay?

1 This ode is addressed to a swallow. I find from Degen and from Gail's index, that the German poet Weisse has imitated it, Scherz. Lieder. lib. ii. carm. 5.; that Ramler also has imitated it, Lyr. Blumenlese, lib. iv. p. 335; and some others. See Gail de Editionibus.

We are here referred by Degen to that dull book, the Epistles of Alciphron, tenth epistle, third book; where Iophon complains to Eraston of being awakened by the crowing of a cock, from his vision of riches.

2 Silly swallow, prating thing, &c.] The loquacity of the swallow was proverbialized; thus Nicostratus:

Ει το συνεχως και πολλα και ταχέως λαλειν
Ην του φρονειν παρασημον, αἱ χελιδονες
Ελεγοντ' αν ἡμων σωφρονεστεραι πολυ.

If in prating from morning till night

A sign of our wisdom there be,

The swallows are wiser by right,

For they prattle much faster than we.

Ah, how thoughtless hast thou been!
Long before the dawn was seen,
When a dream came o'er my mind,
Picturing her I worship, kind,
Just when I was nearly blest,
Loud thy matins broke my rest!

ODE XL.4

"TELL me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay thee For this little waxen toy, Image of the Paphian boy?" Thus I said, the other day, To a youth who pass'd my way "Sir," (he answer'd, and the winne Answer'd all in Doric style,) "Take it, for a trifle take it; 'Twas not I who dared to make it; No, believe me, 'twas not I; Oh, it has cost me many a sigh, And I can no longer keep Little gods, who murder sleep!" "Here, then, here," (I said with joy,) "Here is silver for the boy: He shall be my bosom guest, Idol of my pious breast!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine, Warm me with that torch of thine; Make me feel as I have felt, Or thy waxen frame shall melt: I must burn with warm desire, Or thou, my boy-in yonder fire.

3 Or, as Tereus did, of old, &c.] Modern poetry has confirmed the name of Philomel upon the nightingale; but many respectable authorities among the ancients assigned this metamorphose to Progne, and made Philomel the swallow, as Anacreon does here.

It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simplicity of this ode, and the humor of the turn with which it concludes. I feel. indeed, that the translation must appear vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader.

5 And I can no longer keep

Little gods, who murder sleep!] I have not literally rendered the epithet παντορεκτα; if it has any meaning here, it is one, perhaps, better omitted.

ODE XII.

THEY tell how Atys, wild with love,
Roams the mount and haunted grove;1
Cybele's name he howls around,
The gloomy blast returns the sound!
Oft too, by Claros' hallow'd spring,
The votaries of the laurell'd king
Quaff the inspiring, magic stream,
And rave in wild, prophetic dream.
But phrensied dreams are not for me,
Great Bacchus is my deity!
Full of mirth, and full of him,
While floating odors round me swim,
While mantling bowls are full supplied,
And you sit blushing by my side,
I will be mad and raving too-
Mad, my girl, with love for you!

ODE XIII.

I WILL, I will, the conflict's past, And I'll consent to love at last.

1 They tell how Atys, wild with love,

Roams the mount and haunted grove;) There are many contradictory stories of the loves of Cybele and Atys. It is

certain that he was mutilated, but whether by his own fury, or Cybele's jealousy, is a point upon which authors are not agreed.

Cybele's name he howls around, &c.] I have here adopted the accentuation which Elias Andreas gives to Cybele:

In montibus Cybèlen Magno sonans boatu.

* Oft too, by Claros' hallow'd spring, &c.] This fountain was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated between Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The god had an oracle there. Scaliger thus alludes to it in his Anacreontica:

Semel ut concitus æstro,
Veluti qui Clarias aquas
Ebibere loquaces,

Quo plus canunt, plura volunt.

▲ While floating odors, &c.] Spaletti has quite mistaken the import of κορεσθεις, as applied to the poet's mistress-" Meâ fatigatus amica;"-thus interpreting it in a sense which must want either delicacy or gallantry; if not, perhaps, both.

And what did I unthinking do?

I took to arms, undaunted, too;) Longepierre has here quoted an epigram from the Anthologia, in which the poet assumes Reason as the armor against Love.

Ωπλισμαι προς έρωτα περι στερνοισι λογισμον,
Ουδε με νίκησει, μούνος εων προς ένα·
Θνατος δ' αθανατω συνελευσομαι· ην δε βοηθον
Βακχον έχη, τι μονος προς δυ' εγω δυναμαι

With Reason I cover my breast as a shield,
And fearlessly meet little Love in the field;
Thus fighting his godship, I'll ne'er be dismay'd;
But if Bacchus should ever advance to his aid,

Cupid has long, with smiling art,
Invited me to yield my heart;
And I have thought that peace of mind
Should not be for a smile resign'd:
And so repell'd the tender lure,
And hoped my heart would sleep secure

But, slighted in his boasted charms, The angry infant flew to arms; He slung his quiver's golden frame, He took his bow, his shafts of flame, And proudly summon'd me to yield. Or meet him on the martial field And what did I unthinking do? I took to arms, undaunted, too; Assumed the corslet, shield, and sper. And, like Pelides, smiled at fear. Then (hear it, all ye powers above!) I fought with Love! I fought with Love! And now his arrows all were shed, And I had just in terror fledWhen, heaving an indignant sigh, To see me thus unwounded fly, And, having now no other dart, He shot himself into my heart !

Alas! then, unable to combat the two,
Unfortunate warrior, what should I do?

This idea of the irresistibility of Cupid and Bacchus uni

ted, is delicately expressed in an Italian poem, which is so truly Anacreontic, that its introduction here may be pardoned. It is an imitation, indeed, of our poet's sixth ode.

Lavossi Amore in quel vicino fiume
Ove giuro (Pastor) che bevend' io
Bevei le fiamme, anzi l'istesso Dio,
Ch'or con l'humide piume
Lascivetto mi scherza al cor intorno.
Ma che sarei s'io lo bevessi un giorno,
Bacco, nel tuo liquore ?

Sarei, piu che non sono ebro d'Amore.
The urchin of the bow and quiver
Was bathing in a neighboring river,
Where, as I drank on yester-eve,
(Shepherd-youth, the tale believe,)
"Twas not a cooling, crystal draught,
"Twas liquid flame I madly quaff'd;
For Love was in the rippling tide,
I felt him to my bosom glide;

And now the wily, wanton minion

Plays round my heart with restless pinion.
A day it was of fatal star,

But ah, 'twere e'en more fatal far,

If, Bacchus, in thy cup of fire,

I found this flutt'ring, young desire:
Then, then indeed my soul would prove,
E'en more than ever, drunk with love!

And, having now no other dart,

He shot himself into my heart!] Dryden has parodied this thought in the following extravagant lines:- I'm all o'er Love;

Nay, I am Love, Love shot, and shot so fast,
He shot himself into my breast at last.

My heart-alas the luckless day!
Received the god, and died away.
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield!
Thy lord at length is forced to yield.
Vain, vain, is every outward care,
The foe's within, and triumphs there.

•ODE XIV.1

COUNT me, on the summer trees,
Every leaf that courts the breeze;"
Count me, on the foamy deep,
Every wave that sinks to sleep;
Then, when you have number'd these
Billowy tides and leafy trees,
Count me all the flames I prove,

1 The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses, means nothing more than, by a lively hyperbole, to inform us, that his heart, unfettered by any one object, was warm with devotion towards the sex in general. Cowley is indebted to this ode for the hint of his ballad, called "The Chronicle;" and the learned Menage has imitated it in a Greek Anacreontic, which has so much ease and spirit, that the reader may not be displeased at seeing it here :

ΠΡΟΣ ΒΙΩΝΑ

Ει αλσεων τα φυλλα,
Λειμωνιους τε ποιας,
Ει νυκτος αστρα παντα,
Παράκτιους τε ψαμμους,
Αλος τε κυματωδη,
Δυνη, Βίων, αριθμειν,
Και τους έμους έρωτας
Δυνη, Βίων, αριθμειν.
Κόρην, γυναικα, Χήραν,
Σμικρην, Μεσην, Μεγίστην,
Λεύκην τε και Μελαιναν,
Ορειάδας, Ναπαιας,
Νηρηΐδας τε πασας
Ο σος φίλος φίλησε
Παντων κορος μεν εστιν.
Αυτην νεων Ερωτων,
Δεσποιναν Αφροδίτην,
Χρυσην, καλην γλυκειαν,
Ερασμίαν, ποθεινην,
Αει μόνην φιλησαι
Έγωγε μη δοναιμην.

Tell the foliage of the woods,
Tell the billows of the floods,
Number midnight's starry store,
And the sands that crowd the shore,
Then, my Bion, thou mayst count
Of my loves the vast amount.
I've been loving, all my days,
Many nymphs, in many ways;
Virgin, widow, maid, and wife-
I've been doting all my life.
Naiads, Nereids, nymphs of fountains,
Goddesses of groves and mountains,
Fair and sable, great and small,
Yes, I swear I've loved them all!
Soon was every passion over,
I was but the moment's lover;

All the gentle nymphs I love.
First, of pure Athenian maids
Sporting in their olive shades,
You may reckon just a score,
Nay, I'll grant you fifteen more.
In the famed Corinthian grove,
Where such countless wantons rove,
Chains of beauties may be found,
Chains, by which my heart is bound;
There, indeed, are nymphs divine,
Dangerous to a soul like mine.
Many bloom in Lesbos' isle;
Many in Ionia smile;
Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast;
Caria too contains a host.
Sum them all of brown and fair
You may count two thousand there.

Oh! I'm such a roving elf,
That the Queen of love herself,
Though she practised all her wiles,
Rosy blushes, wreathed smiles,
All her beauty's proud endeavor
Could not chain my heart forever.

2 Count me, on the summer trees,

Every leaf, &c.] This figure is called, by rhetoricians, the Impossible, (αδυνατον,) and is very frequently made use of in poetry. The amatory writers have exhausted a world of imagery by it, to express the infinite number of kisses which they require from the lips of their mistresses: in this Catullus led the way.

Carm. 7.

-Quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox,
Furtivos hominum vident amores;
Tam te basia multa basiare
Vesano satis, et super, Catullo est:
Quæ nec pernumerare curiosi
Possint, nec mala fascinare lingua.
As many stellar eyes of light,
As through the silent waste of night,
Gazing upon this world of shade,
Witness some secret youth and maid,
Who fair as thou, and fond as I,
In stolen joys enamor'd lie,-
So many kisses, ere I slumber,
Upon those dew-bright lips I'll number;
So many kisses we shall count,
Envy can never tell th' amount.

No tongue shall blab the sum, but mine;
No lips shall fascinate, but thine!

In the famed Corinthian grove,

Where such countless wantons rove, &c.] Corinth was very famous for the beauty and number of its courtesans. Venus was the deity principally worshipped by the people, and their constant prayer was, that the gods should increase the number of her worshippers. We may perceive from the application of the verb κορινθιαζειν, in Aristophanes, that the lubricity of the Corinthians had become proverbial.

There, indeed, are nymphs divine, Dangerous to a soul like mine!] "With justice has the poet attributed beauty to the women of Greece."-Degen.

M. de Pauw, the author of Dissertations upon the Greeks, is of a different opinion; he thinks, that by a capricious partiality of nature, the other sex had all the beauty; and by this supposition endeavors to account for a very sing tlar depravation of instinct among that people.