And while the red cup foams along,
Mingle in soul as well as song.
Then, while I sit, with flow'rets crown'd,
To regulate the goblet's round,
Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride,
Be seated smiling by my side,
And earth has not a gift or power
That I would envy in that hour.
Envy! oh never let its blight
Touch the gay hearts met here to-night.
Far hence be slander's sidelong wounds,
Nor harsh disputes, nor discord's sounds
Disturb a scene, where all should be
Attuned to peace and harmony.

Come, let us hear the harp's gay neto Upon the breeze inspiring float, While round us, kindling into love, Young maidons through the light dance move. Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace, Sure such a life should never cease!

Some airy nymph, with graceful bound,
Keeps measure to the music's sound;
Waving, in her snowy hand,
The leafy Bacchanalian wand,
Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
Trembles all over 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 oh, the sadness in his sigh,
As o'er his lip the accents die !"
Never sure on earth has been
Half so bright, so blest a scene.
It seems as Love himself had cor
To make this spot his chosen home;-
And Venus, too, with all her wiles,
And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles,
All, all are here, to hail with me
The Genius of Festivity!"

ODE XLIIL.

WHILE our rosy fillets shed
Freshness o'er each fervid head,
With many a cup and many a smile
The festal moments we beguile.
And while the harp, impassion'd, flings
Tuneful raptures from its strings,1

And while the harp, impassion'd, flings Tuneful rapture from its strings, &c.] Respecting the barbiton a host of authorities may be collected, which, after all, leave us ignorant of the nature of the instrument. There is scarcely any point upon which we are so totally uninformed as the music of the ancients. The authors* extant upon the subject are, Imagine, little understood; and certainly if one of their moods was a progression by quarter-tones, which we are told was the nature of the enharmonic scale, simplicity was by no means the characteristic of their melody; for this is a nicety of progression of which modern music is not susceptible.

The invention of the barbiton is, by Athenæus, attributed to Anacreon. See his fourth book, where it is called to εύρημα του Ανακρέοντος. Neanthes of Cyzicus, as quoted by Gyraldus, asserts the same. Vide Chabot, in Horat. on the words "Lesboum barbiton," in the first ode.

And oh, the sadness in his sigh,

As o'er his lip the accents die!] Longepierre has quoted here an epigram from the Anthologia :

Κουρη τις μ' εφίλησε ποθεσπερα χειλεσιν ύγροις.
Νεκταρ την το φιλημα. το γαρ στομα νέκταρος επνει.
Νυν μεθύω το φιλημα, πολυν τον έρωτα πεπωκως.

Of which the following paraphrase may give some idea:• Coßected by Meibomius.

ODE XLIV.5

BUDS of roses, virgin flowers,
Cull'd from Cupid's balmy bowers,
In the bowl of Bacchus steep,
Till with crimson drops they weep.
Twine the rose, the garland twine,
Every leaf distilling wine;
Drink and smile, and learn to think
That we were born to smile and drink

The kiss that she left on my lip,
Like a dewdrop shall lingering lie;
"Twas nectar she gave me to sip,

"Twas nectar I drank in her sigh.
From the moment she printed that kiss,
Nor reason, nor rest has been mine;

My whole soul has been drunk with the bliss,
And feels a delirium divine!

3 It seems as Love himself had come

To make this spot his chosen home;-) The introduction of these deities to the festival is merely allegorical. Madame Dacier thinks that the poet describes a masquerade, where these deities were personated by the company in masks. The translation will conform with either idea.

▲ All, all are here, to hail with me

The Genius of Festivity!] Κωμος, the deity or genius of mirth. Philostratus, in the third of his pictures, gives a very lively description of this god.

This spirited poem is a eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty-fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes refers us, the rose is fancifully styled "the eye of flowers;" and the same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favors of the Muse "the roses of Pieria." See the notes on the fifty-fifth ode.

"Compare with this ode (says the German annotator) the beautiful ode of Uz, 'die Rose."

Rose, thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower;
Rose, thou art the fondest child
Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.
Even the Gods, who walk the sky,
Are amorous of thy scented sigh.
Cupid, too, in Paphian shades,
His hair with rosy fillet braids,
When with the blushing, sister Graces,
The wanton winding dance he traces.1
Then bring me, showers of roses bring,
And shed them o'er me while I sing,
Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine,
Wreathing my brow with rose and vine,
I lead some bright nymph through the dance,
Commingling soul with every glance.

ODE XLV.

WITHIN this goblet, rich and deep,
I cradle all my woes to sleep.
Why should we breathe the sigh of fear,
Or pour the unavailing tear?

For death will never heed the sigh,

Nor soften at the tearful eye;

And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep,
Must all alike be seal'd in sleep.

Then let us never vainly stray,

In search of thorns, from pleasure's way;

E che val, fuor della strada Del piacere alma e gradita, Vaneggiare in questa vita?

But wisely quaff the rosy wave,
Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave;
And in the goblet, rich and deep,
Cradle our crying woes to sleep.

ODE XLVI.4

BEHOLD, the young, the rosy Spring,
Gives to the breeze her scented wing;
While virgin Graces, warm with May,
Fling roses o'er her dewy way.
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languish'd into sånt sleep;
And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave;
While cranes from hoary winter fly
To flutter in a kinder sky.
Now the genial star of day
Dissolves the murky clouds away;
And cultured field, and winding stream,"
Are freshly glittering in his beam.

Now the earth prolific swells With leafy buds and flowery bells; Gemming shoots the olive twine, Clusters ripe festoon the vine; All along the branches creeping, Through the velvet foliage peeping, Little infant fruits we see,

Nursing into luxury.

There is a simple and poetical description of Spring, in Catullus's beautiful farewell to Bithynia. Carm. 44.

Barnes conjectures, in his life of our poet, that this ode was written after he had returned from Athens, to settle in his paternal seat at Teos; where, in a little villa at some distance from the city, commanding a view of the Egean Sea and the islands, he contemplated the beauties of nature and enjoyed the felicities of retirement. Vide Barnes, in Anac. Vita, ý xxxv. This supposition, however unauthenticated, forms a pleasing association, which renders the poem more interesting.

Chevreau says, that Gregory Nazianzenus has paraphrased somewhere this description of Spring; but I cannot meet with it. See Chevreau, Œuvres Mélées.

"Compare with this ode (says Degen) the verses of Hagedorn, book fourth, 'der Frühling, and book fifth, 'der Mai.""

While virgin Graces, warm with May,

Fling roses o'er her dewy way.] De Pauw reads, Χαριτας ῥοδα βρυουσιν, "the roses display their graces." This is not uningenious; but we lose by it the beauty of the personification, to the boldness of which Regnier has rather frivolously objected.

• The murmuring billows of the deep

Have languish'd into silent sleep; &c.] It has been justly remarked, that the liquid flow of the line απαλύνεται γαληνη is perfectly expressive of the tranquillity which it describes.

And cultured field, and winding stream, &c.] Βγ βροτων εργα, "the works of men," (says Baxter,) he means cities, temples, and towns, which are then illuminated by the beams of the sun.

ODE XLVII.

"Tis true, my fading years decline,
Yet can I quaff the brimming wine,
As deep as any stripling fair,
Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;
And if, amidst the wanton crew,
I'm call'd to wind the dance's clew,
Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand,
Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,
But brandishing a rosy flask,1
The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask!"

Let those, who pant for Glory's charms, Embrace her in the field of arms; While my inglorious, placid soul Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl. Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, And bathe me in its brimming wave. For though my fading years decay, Though manhood's prime hath pass'd away, Like old Silenus, sire divine, With blushes borrow'd from my wine, I'll wanton 'mid the dancing train, And live my follies o'er again!

ODE XLVIII.

WHEN my thirsty soul I steep,
Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep.
Talk of monarchs! I am then
Richest, happiest, first of men;
Careless o'er my cup I sing,
Fancy makes me more than king;
Gives me wealthy Cræsus' store,
Can I, can I wish for more?

1 But brandishing a rosy flask, &c.] Ασκος was a kind of leathern vessel for wine, very much in use, as should seem by the proverb ασκος και θυλακος, which was applied to those who were intemperate in eating and drinking. This proverb is mentioned in some verses quoted by Athenæus,

from the Hesione of Alexis.

* The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask!) Phornutus assigns as a reason for the consecration of the thyrsus to Bacchus, that Inebriety often renders the support of a stick very necessary.

3 Ivy leaves my brow entwining, &c.] "The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus, (says Montfaucon,) because he formerly lay hid under that tree, or, as others will have it, because its leaves resemble those of the vine." Other reasons for its consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, Barnes, &c. &c.

4 Arm ye, arm ye, men of might,

On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining, While my soul expands with glee, What are kings and crowns to me? If before my feet they lay, I would spurn them all away! Arm ye, arm ye, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight;" But let me, my budding vine! Spill no other blood than thine. Yonder brimming goblet see, That alone shall vanquish meWho think it better, wiser ar To fall in banquet than in war.

ODE XLIX.5

WHEN Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy,
The rosy harbinger of joy,
Who, with the sunshine of the bowl,
Thaws the winter of our soul-
When to my inmost core he glides,
And bathes it with his ruby tides,
A flow of joy, a lively heat,
Fires my brain, and wings my feet,
Calling up round me visions known
To lovers of the bowl alone.

Sing, sing of love, let music's sound In melting cadence float around, While, my young Venus, thou and I Responsive to its murmurs sigh. Then, waking from our blissful trance, Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.

ODE L.1

WHEN wine I quaff, before my eyes
Dreams of poetic glory rise;"
And freshen'd by the goblet's dews,
My soul invokes the heavenly Muse.
When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er;
I think of doubts and fears no more;
But scatter to the railing wind
Each gloomy phantom of the mind.
When I drink wine, th' ethereal boy,
Bacchus himself, partakes my joy;
And while we dance through vernal bowers,
Whose ev'ry breath comes fresh from flowers,
In wine he makes my senses swim,
Till the gale breathes of naught but him!

Again I drink, and, lo, there seems A calmer light to fill my dreams; The lately ruffled wreath I spread With steadier hand around my head; Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest The life of him who lives at rest!" But then comes witching wine again, With glorious woman in its train; And, while rich perfumes round me rise, That seem the breath of woman's sighs,

1 Faber thinks this ode spurious; but, I believe, he is singular in his opinion. It has all the spirit of our author. Like the wreath which he presented in the dream, "it smells of Anacreon."

The form of the original is remarkable. It is a kind of song of seven quatrain stanzas, each beginning with the line

Ότ' εγω πιω τον οινον.

The first stanza alone is incomplete, consisting but of three lines.

"Compare with this poem (says Degen) the verses of Hagedorn, lib. v., 'der Wein,' where that divine poet has wantoned in the praises of wine."

2 When wine I quaff, before my eyes

Dreams of poetic glory rise;] "Anacreon is not the only one (says Longepierre) whom wine has inspired with poetry. We find an epigram in the first book of the Anthologia, which begins thus:

Οινος τοι χαριεντι μέγας πέλει ἱππος αοιδῳ,
Ὑδωρ δε πίνων, καλον ου τέκοις έπος.
If with water you fill up your glasses,
You'll never write any thing wise;
For wine's the true horse of Parnassus,
Which carries a bard to the skies!

3 And while we dance through vernal bowers, &c.] If some of the translators had observed Doctor Trapp's caution, with regard to πολυανθεσιν μ' εν αυραις, “Cave ne cœlum intelligas," they would not have spoiled the simplicity of Anacreon's fancy, by such extravagant conceptions as the following:

Quand je bois, mon œil s'imagine
Que, dans un tourbillon plein de parfums divers,
Bacchus m'emporte dans les airs,
Rempli de sa liqueur divine.

Bright shapes, of every hue and form,
Upon my kindling fancy swarm,
Till the whole world of beauty seems
To crowd into my dazzled dreams!
When thus I drink, my heart refines,
And rises as the cup declines;
Rises in the genial flow,
That none but social spirits know,
When, with young revellers, round the bowl,
The old themselves grow young in soul!"
Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine,
There's bliss in every drop of wine.
All other blessings I have known,
I scarcely dared to call my own;
But this the Fates can ne'er destroy,
Till death o'ershadows all my joy.

ODE LL5

FLY not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though youth's brilliant flush be thine,
Still I'm doom'd to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!