A French translation by la Fosse, 1704. L'Histoire des Odes d'Anacréon, by Monsieur Gacon; Rotterdam, 1712.

A translation in English verse, by several hands, 1713, in which the odes by Cowley are inserted.

The edition by Barnes; London, 1721.

The edition by Dr Trapp, 1733, with a Latin version in elegiac metre.

A translation in English verse, by John Addison, 1735. A collection of Italian translations of Anacreon, published at Venice, 1736, consisting of those by Corsini, Regnier, Salvini, Marchetti, and one by several anonymous authors.

A translation in English verse, by Fawkes and Doctor Broome, 1760.3

Another, anonymous, 1768.

The edition by Spaletti, at Rome, 1781; with the fac-simile of the Vatican MS.

The edition by Degen, 1786, who published also a German translation of Anacreon, esteemed the best.

A translation in English verse, by Urquhart, 1787. The edition by Citoyen Gail, at Paris, seventh year, 1799, with a prose translation.

ODES OF ANACREON.

ODE I. 4

I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure;
"T was in a vision of the night,

He beam'd upon my wandering sight:

I heard his voice, and warmly press'd

The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery dye,
But beauty sparkled in his eye;
Sparkled in his eyes of fire,
Through the mist of soft desire.

The notes of Regnier are not inserted in this edition: they must be interesting, as they were for the most part communicated by the ingenious Menage, who, we may perceive, bestowed some research on the subject, by a passage in the Menagiana-«C'est aussi lui (M. Bigot)

qui s'est donné la peine de conférer des manuscrits en Italie dans le temps que je travaillais sur Anacreon. -Menagiana, seconde partie. I find in Haym's Notizia de' Libri rari, an Italian translation mentioned, by Caponne in Venice, 1670.

This is the most complete of the English translations.

This ode is the first of the series in the Vatican manuscript, which attributes it to no other poet than Anacreon. They who assert that the manuscript imputes it to Basilius have been misled by the words Tou autou Buschtxons in the margin, which are merely intended as a title to the following ode. Whether it be the production of Anacreon or not, it has all the features of ancient simplicity, and is a beautiful imitation of the poet's happiest manner. Sparkled in his eyes of fire, Through the mist of soft desire.] How could he know at the first look (says Baxter) that the poet was thevos? There are surely many tell-tales of this propensity; and the following are the indices, which the physiognomist gives, describing a disposition perhaps not unlike that of Anacreon: Οφθαλμοι κλυζομενοι, κυμαι νοντες εν αυτοις, εις αφροδισια και ευπάθειαν επτο ηνται ούτε δε αδικοι, ούτε κακουργοί, ούτε φύσεως pavλns, outs aμvot.-Adamantius. The eyes that are humid and fluctuating show a propensity to pleasure and love;they bespeak too a mind of integrity and beneficence, a generosity of disposition, and a genius for poetry."

His lip exhaled, whene'er he sigh'd,
The fragrance of the racy tide;
And, as with weak and reeling feet,
He came my cordial kiss to meet,
An infant of the Cyprian band
Guided him on with tender hand.
Quick from his glowing brows he drew
His braid, of many a wanton hue;

I took the braid of wanton twine,

It breathed of him and blush'd with wine!
I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow,
And ah! I feel its magic now!

I feel that even his garland's touch
Can make the bosom love too much!

ODE II.

GIVE me the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal rite,
I'm monarch of the board to-night;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I!
And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm, enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch the elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
Oh Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,
In wild but sweet ebriety!

And flash around such sparks of thought,
As Bacchus could alone have taught!
Then give the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing!

I took the braid of wanton twine,

It breathed of him, etc.] Philostratus has the same thought in one of bis EpwTizz, where he speaks of the garland which he had sent to his mistr ss. Ει δε βούλει τι φίλῳ χαρίζεσθαι, τα λείψανα αντιπέμψον, μηκετι πνέοντα ῥόδων μόνον xx xx σov. « If thou art inclined to gratify thy lover, send him back the remains of the garland, no longer breathing of roses only, but of thee! Which pretty conceit is borrowed (as the author of the Observer remarks) in a well-known little song of Ben Jonson's:

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent it back to me;

Since when, it looks and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee!

And ah! I feel its magic now!] This idea, as Longepierre remarks, is in an epigram of the seventh book of the Anthologia. Εξοτε μοι πινοντι συνεςάουσα Χαρικλώ Λαθρη τους ίδιους αμφέβαλε σεράνους, Πυρ όλούν δάπτει με.

While I unconscious quaff'd my wine,

'T was then thy fingers slyly stole Upon my brow that wreath of thine, Which since has madden'd all my soul!

tist. Porta.

Monsieur La Fosse has thought proper to lengthen this poem by considerable interpolations of his own, which he thinks are indispensably necessary to the completion of the description.

This is the ode which Aulas Gellius tells us was performed by minstrels at an entertainment where he was present.

While many a rose-lipp'd bacchant maid, etc.] I have given this according to the Vatican manuscript, in which the ode concludes with the following lines, not inserted accurately in any of the editions: Ποίησον αμπελους μου Και βοτρυας κατ' αυτών Και μαινάδας τρυγώσας, Ποιει δε ληνόν οίνου, Ληνοβατας πατούντας, Τους σατύρους γελώντας, Και χρυσούς τους έρωτας, και Κυθέρην γελωσαν, Όμου καλῳ Λυκία, Έρωτα κ' Αφροδίτην.

Degen thinks that this ode is a more modern imitation 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, etc. etc.

Which on the shrine of Spring reposes,
When shepherds hail that hour of roses.
Grave it with themes of chaste design,
Form'd for a heavenly bowl like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites
In which religious zeal delights;
Nor any tale of tragic fate,
Which history trembles to relate!
No-cull thy fancies from above,
Themes of heaven 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;
And all the Graces link'd with Love,
Blushing through the shadowy grove;
While rosy boys, disporting round,
In circlets trip the velvet ground;
But ah! if there Apollo toys

I tremble for my rosy boys!

I caught the boy, a goblet's tide
Was richly mantling by my side,
I caught him by his downy wing,
And whelm'd him in the racy spring.
Oh! then I drank the poison'd bowl,
And Love now nestles in my soul!
Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,
I feel him fluttering in my breast.

ODE VII.

THE women tell me every day
That all my bloom has past 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,

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 nota movere Deos.
Impositosque coma 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 milky swell,
Her features, where the eye of Jove might dwell;
And caught the ambrosial odours of her hair,
Rich as the breathings of Arabian air;

Ob 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 bosom shall be Cupid's throne!"

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

Montre raccoglie hor uno, hor altro fiore
Vicina a un rio di chiare et lucid' onde,
Lidia, etc. etc.

1 Alberti bas imitated this ode, in a poem beginning

Nisa mi dice e Clori

Tirsi, tu se pur veglio.

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' εἰσιν, είτ' 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 elegant; 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 valgar licentiousness.

That still as death approches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give!

ODE VIII.

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.
But oh! be mine the rosy braid,
The fervour of my brows to shade;
Be mine the odours, richly sighing,
Amidst my hoary tresses flying.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should 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;

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 nulla est conditione senex.

Why do you scorn my want of youth,

And with a smile my brow behold?

Lady, dear! believe this truth

That he who loves cannot be old.

The German poet Lessing has imitated this ode. Vol. i, p. 24. " -Degen. Gail de Editionibus.

Baxter conjectures that this was written upon the occasion of our poet's returning the money to Policrates, according to the anecdote in Stobaeus.

I care not for the idle state

Of Persia's king, etc.] There is a fragment of Archilochus in Plutarch, De tranquillitate animi,' which our poet has very closely imitated here: it begins,

Ου μοι τα Γυγέω του πολυχρυσου μελεί. —BARNES.

In one of the monkish imitators of Anacreon we find the same thought.
Ψυχήν εμην ερωτώ,
Τι σοι θελεις γενεσθαι;
Θελεις Γύγεω, τα και τα;

Be mine the odours, richly sighing,

Amidst my hoary tresses flying.] In the original, upoloi xataβρέχειν 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 bave 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, (a) 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 -he has introduced it in the following lines:

Hæc mihi cura, rosis et cingere tempora myrto,
Et curas multo dilapidare mero.
Hæc mihi cura, comas et barbam tingere succo
Assyrio et dulces continuare jocos.
This be my care, to twine the rosy wreath,
And drench my sorrows in the ample bowl;
To let my beard the Assyrian unguent breathe,
And give a loose to levity of soul!

(a) Sicut unguentum in capite quod descendit in barbam Aaron,— Psaume 133..

And shed from every 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 IX.

I PRAY thee, by the gods above,
Give me the mighty bowl I love,
And let me sing, in wild delight,
. I will-I will be mad to-night!,
Alemæon once, as legends tell,
Was frenzied by the fiends of hell;
Orestes too,
with naked tread,

Frantic paced the mountain head;

And why!-a murder'd mother's shade
Before their conscious fancy play'd;
But I can ne'er a murderer be,

The grape
alone shall bleed by me;
Yet can I rave, in wild delight,
. I will-I will be mad to-night.
The son of Jove, in days of yore
Imbrued his hands in youthful gore,
And brandish'd, with a maniac joy,
The quiver of the expiring boy:
And Ajax, with tremendous shield,
Infuriate scour'd the guiltless field.
But I, whose hands no quiver hold,
No weapon but this flask of gold,
The trophy of whose frantic hours
Is but a scatter'd wreath of flowers;
Yet, yet can sing with wild delight,
I will-I will be mad to-night!.

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. Leider. 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 referred by Degen to that stupid book, the Epistles of Alciphron, tenth epistle, third book; where Iophon complains to Eraston of being wakened, by the crowing of a cock, from his vision of riches.

Silly swallow! prating thing, etc.] The loquacity of the swallow was proverbialized: thus Nicostratus

Ει το συνεχώς και πολλα και ταχέως λαλειν
Ην του φρονειν παρατημον, αἱ χελιδόνες
Ελέγοντ' αν ήμων σωφρονέτεραι πολυ.

Take it, for a trifle take it;

Think not yet that I could make it;
Pray believe it was not I;
No-it 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!»

Little Love! thou now art mine,
Warm me with that torch of thine;
Make me feel as I have felt,

Or thy waxen frame shall melt.

I must burn in warm desire,

Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire!

ODE XII.

THEY tell how Atys, wild with love,
Roams the mount and haunted grove;

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.

Or, as Tereus did of old, etc.] Modern poetry has confirmed the name of Philomel upon the nightingale; but many very respectable ancients assigned this metamorphosis 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 humour of the turn with which it concludes. I feel that the translation must appear very vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader.

Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire!] Monsieur Longepierre conjectures from this, that whatever Anacreon might say, he sometimes felt the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature. 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 her jealousy, is a point which authors are not agreed upon.

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 waves of perfume round me swim,
While flavour'd 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.
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 I've repell'd the tender lure,

And hoped my heart should 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 :

Cybele's names he howls around, etc.] I have adopted the accentuation which Elias Andreas gives to Cybele:

In montibus Cybelen Magno sonans boatu.

Oft too by Claros' hallow'd spring, etc.] This fountain was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated between Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The god had an oracle there.-Scaliger has thus alluded to it in bis Anacreontica:

Semel ut concitus astro,

Veluti qui Clarias aquas
Ebibere loquaces,

Quo plus canunt, plura volunt.

While waves of perfume, etc.] Spaletti has mistaken the import of κορεσθείς, as applied to the poet's mistress: Mea fatigatus amica. He interprets it in a sense which must want either delicacy or gallantry.

And what did I unthinking do?

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

Ώπλισμοι προς έρωτα περι ξερνοισι λογισμόν,
Ουδε με νικησει, μόνος των προς ένα.
Θνατος δ' αθανάτῳ συνελεύσομαι· ην δε βοηθον
Βακχον εχη, τι μόνος προς δύ' εγω δύναμαι;

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

This idea of the irresistibility of Capid and Bacchus united, is delicately expressed in an Italian poem, which is so very Anacreontic, that I may be pardoned for introducing it. Indeed, it is an imitation of our poet's sixth ode.

Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.
Then (hear it, all you Powers above!)
I fought with Love! I fought with Love!
And now his arrows all were shed-
And I had just in terror fled-
When, heaving an indignant sigh,
To see me thus unwounded fly,
And having now no other dart,
He glanced himself into my heart!
My heart-alas the luckless day!
Received the god, and died away.
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield!
Thy lord at length was forced to yield.
Vain, vain is every outward care,
My foe's within, and triumphs there.

ODE XIV.'

COUNT me, on the summer trees,
Every leaf that courts the breeze;

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

Sarel, piu che non sono ebro d'Amore.

The urchin of the bow and quiver
Was bathing in a neighbouring river,
Where, as I drank on yester-eve
(Shepherd-youth! the tale believe),
'T was not a cooling crystal draught,
'T was 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 o'er my heart with restless pinion.
This was a day of fatal star,

But were it not more fatal far,

If, Bacchus, in thy cup of fire,

I found this fluttering, young desire?
Then, then indeed my soul should prove
Much more than ever, drunk with love!

And having now no other dart, He glanced 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.

The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses means nothing more than, by a lively hyperbole, to tell 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 Monsieur Menage has imitated it in a Greek Anacreontic, which bas so much ease and spirit, that the reader may not be displeased at seeing it here:

Προς Βίωνα.

Ει αλσεων τα φυλλα,
Λειμωνίους τε ποιας,
Ει νυκτός αέρα παντα,
Παρακτίους τε ψάμμους,
Αλος τε κυματωδη,
Δυνη, Βίων, αριθμειν,
Και τους εμους έρωτας
Δυνη, Βίων, αριθμειν.
Κόρην, Γυναίκα, Χήραν,
Σμικρην, Μεσην, Μεγίςην,