Oh! that a mirror's form were mine, To sparkle with that smile divine; And, like my heart, I then should be Reflecting thee, and only thee!

Or were I, love, the robe which flows
O'er every charm that secret glows,
In many a lucid fold to swim,
And cling and grow to every limb!
Oh! could I, as the streamlet's wave,
Thy warmly-mellowing beauties lave,
Or float as perfume on thine hair,
And breathe my soul in fragrance there'
I wish I were the zone that lies
Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs!
Or like those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow;
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh! any thing that touches thee.
Nay, sandals for those airy feet-
Thus to be press'd by thee, were sweet!

ODE XXIII.'

I OFTEN wish this languid lyre, This warbler of my soul's desire,

I wish I were the zone that lies

Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs!] This ravin was a riband, or band, called by the Romans fascia and strophium, which the women wore for the purpose of restraining the exuberance of the bosom. Vide Polluc. Onomast. Thus Martial:

Fascia crescentes dominæ compesce papillas.

The women of Greece not only wore this zone, but condemned themselves to fasting, and made use of certain drugs and powders for the same purpose. To these expedients they were compelled, in consequence of their inelegant fashion of compressing the waist into a very narrow compass, which necessarily caused an excessive tumidity in the bosom. See Dioscorides, lib. v.

Nay, sandals for those airy feet—

Thus to be press'd by thee were sweet!] The sophist Philos ratus, in one of his love-letters, has borrowed this thought: ω αδέτοι πόδες, ω κάλλος ελευθερος, ω τρισευ δαιμων εγω και μακαίριος εαν πατήσετε με. "Oh lovely feet! oh excellent beauty! oh! thrice happy and blessed should I be, if you would but tread on me!" In Shakspeare, Romeo desires to be a glove:

Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might kiss that cheek!

And, in his Passionate Pilgrim, we meet with an idea somewhat like that of the thirteenth line:

He, spying her, bounced in, where as he stood,
"O Jove!" quoth she, "why was not I a flood!"

In Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, that whimsical farrago of "all such reading as was never read," there is a very old translation of this ode, before 1632. "Englished by Mr. B. Holiday, in his Technog. act 1, scene 7."

1 This ode is first in the series of all the editions, and is thought to be peculiarly designed as an introduction to the rest; it however characterizes the genius of the Teian but very inadequately, as wine, the burden of his lays, is not even mentioned in it.

-cum multo Venerem confundere mero Precepit Lyrici Teia Musa senis.

Ovid.

The twenty-sixth Ode, ov us λegels Tα Onbus, might, with as much propriety, be ne harbinger of his songs.

Bion has expressed the sentiments of the ode before us with much simplicity in his fourth idyl. I have given it rather paraphrastically; it has been so frequently translated, that I could not otherwise avoid triteness and repetition.

Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame, in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
"Our sighs are given to Love alone!"
Indignant at the feeble lay,

I tore the panting chords away,
Attuned them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell;
In all the glow of epic fire,
To Hercules I wake the lyre!
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
"The tale of Love alone is sweet!"
Then fare thee well, seductive dream,
That mad'st me follow Glory's theme;
For thou, my lyre, and thou, my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And thou the flame shalt feel as well
As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell!

ODE XXIV.'

To all that breathe the airs of heaven,
Some boon of strength has nature given.
When the majestic bull was born,
She fenced his brow with wreathed horn.
She arm'd the courser's foot of air,
And wing'd with speed the panting hare.
She gave the lion fangs of terror,
And, on the ocean's crystal mirror,
Taught the unnumber'd scaly throng
To trace their liquid path along;
While for the umbrage of the grove,
She plumed the warbling world of love.

In all the glow of epic fire,

To Hercules I wake the lyre!] Madame Dacier generally translates up into a lute, which I believe is rather inaccurate. "D'expliquer la lyre des anciens (says Monsieur Sorel) par un luth, c'est ignorer la d fférence qu'il y a entre ces deux instrumens de musique." Bibliothèque Française. But still its fainting sighs repeat,

"The tale of Love alone is sweet!"] The word vs. vs, in the original, may imply that kind of musical dialogue practised by the ancients, in which the lyre was made to respond to the questions proposed by the singer. This was a method which Sappho used, as we are told by Hermogenes : “ όταν την λύραν ερωτα Σαπφώ, και όταν αυτή απο κρίνηται. Περι Ιδεων. Τομ. δευτ.

1 Henri Stephens has imitated the idea of this ode in the following lines of one of his poems:

Provida dat cunctis Natura animantibus arma,
Et sua foemineum possidet arma genus,
Ungulaque ut defendit equum, atque ut cornua tauruni,
Armata est forma fœmina pulchra sua.

And the same thought occurs in those lines, spoken by Corisca in Pastor Fido:

Così noi la bellezza

Che 'è vertu nostra cosi propria, come
La forza del leone

El'ingegno de l'huomo.

The lion boasts his savage powers,

And lordly man his strength of mind;
But beauty's charm is solely ours,

Peculiar boon, by Heaven assign'd!

"An elegant explication of the beauties of this ode (says Degen) may be found in Grimm en den Anmerkk. Veber einige Oden des Anakr"

To man she gave the flame refined,
The spark of Heaven-a thinking mind!
And had she no surpassing treasure
For thee, oh woman! child of pleasure?
She gave thee beauty-shaft of eyes,
That every shaft of war outflies!
She gave thee beauty-blush of fire,
That bids the flames of war retire!
Woman! be fair, we must adore thee;
Smile, and a world is weak before thee!

ODE XXV.1

ONCE in each revolving year,
Gentle bird! we find thee here,
When nature wears her summer-vest,
Thou com'st to weave thy simple nest;
But when the chilling winter lowers,
Again thou seek'st the genial bowers
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile,
Where sunny hours of verdure smile.
And thus thy wing of freedom roves,
Alas! unlike the plumed loves,
That linger in this hapless breast,
And never, never change their nest!

To man she gave the flame refined,

The spark of Heaven-a thinking mind!] In my first attempt to translate this ode, I had interpreted pounμa, with Baxter and Barnes, as implying courage and military virtue; but I do not think that the gallantry of the idea suffers by the import which I have now given to it. For, why need we consider this possession of wisdom as exclusive? and in truth, as the design of Anacreon is to estimate the treasure of beauty, above all the rest which Nature has distributed, it is perhaps even refining upon the delicacy of the compliment, to prefer the radiance of female charms to the cold illumination of wisdom and prudence; and to think that women's eyes are

the books, the academies,

From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.

She gave thee beauty-shaft of eyes,

That very shaft of war outfiies!] Thus Achilles Tatius: κάλλος οξυτέρον τιτρώσκει βέλους, και δια των οφ θαλμών εις την ψυχήν καταρρει, Οφθαλμος γαρ οδος ερωτ τικο τραυματι, "Beauty wounds more swiftly than the arrow, and passes through the eye to the very soul; for the eye is the inlet to the wounds of love."

Woman! be fair, we must adore thee;

Smile, and a world is weak before thee!] Longepierre's remark here is very ing nious: "The Romans," says he, "were so convinced of the power of beauty, that they used a word implying strength in the place of the epithet beautiful. Thus Plautus, act 2, scene 2, Bacchid.

Sed Bacchis etiam fortis tibi visa.

'Fortis, id est formosa,' say Servius and Nonius."

1 This is another ode addressed to the swallow.

bas imitated both in one poem, beginning

Perch' io pianga al tuo canto

Rondinella importuna, etc.

Alas! unlike the plumed loves,
That linger in this hapless breast,

Alberti

And never, never change their nest!] Thus Love is represented as a bird, in an epigram cited by Longepierre from the Anthologia:

Αιει μοι δυνει μεν εν ουασιν ηχος έρωτος,
Ομμα δε σιγα πόθοις το γλυκυ δακρυ φερει.
Ουδ' η νύξ, ου φεγγος εκοιμισεν, αλλ' υπο φίλτρων
Ηδε που κραδίη γνωστός ενεστι τύπος.

Ω πτανοί, μη και ποτ' εφιπτασθαι μεν ερωτες
Οιδατ', αποπτηναι δ' ουδ'οσον ισχυετέ.

"Tis Love that murmurs in my breast,
And makes me shed the secret tear;
Nor day nor night my heart has rest,
For night and day his voice I hear.

Still every year, and all the year,
A flight of loves engender here;
And some their infant plumage try,
And on a tender winglet fly;
While in the shell, impregn'd with fires,
Cluster a thousand more desires;
Some from their tiny prisons peeping,
And some in formless embryo sleeping.
My bosom, like the vernal groves,
Resounds with little warbling loves;
One urchin imps the other's feather,
Then twin-desires they wing together,
And still as they have learn'd to soar,
The wanton babies teem with more.
But is there then no kindly art,

To chase these Cupids from my heart?
No, no! I fear, alas! I fear
They will for ever nestle here!

ODE XXVI.'

THY harp may sing of Troy's alarms,
Or tell the tale of Theban arms;
With other wars my song shall burn,
For other wounds my harp shall mourn
'T was not the crested warrior's dart
Which drank the current of my heart;
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,
Have made this vanquish'd bosom bleed;
No-from an eye of liquid blue
A host of quiver'd Cupids flew ;
And now my heart all bleeding lies
Beneath this army of the eyes!

ODE XXVII.2

WE read the flying courser's name Upon his side, in marks of flame;

A wound within my heart I find,
And oh! 'tis plain where love has been;
For stiil he leaves a wound behind,
Such as within my heart is seen.

Oh bird of Love! with song so drear,
Make not my soul the nest of pain;
Oh! let the wing which brought thee here,
In pity waft thee hence again!

1 "The German poet Uz has imitated this ode. Compare also Weisse Scherz. Lieder. lib. iii. der Soldat." Guil, Degen.

No-from an eye of liquid blue,

A host of quiver'd Cupids flew.] Longepierre has quoted part of an epigram from the seventh book of the Anthologia, which has a fancy someth ng like this:

Ου με λεληθες,

Τοξοτα, Ζηνοφίλας όμμασι κρυπτόμενος.
Archer Love! though s'ily creeping,
Well I know where thou dost lie;
I saw thee through the curtain peeping,
That fringes Zenuphelia's eye.

The poets abound with conceits on the archery of the eyes, but few have turned the thought so naturally as Anacreon. Ronsard gives to the eyes of his mistress "un petit camp d'amours."

2 This ode forms a part of the preceding in the Vatican MS. but I have conformed to the editions in translating them separately.

"Compare with this (says Degen) the poem of Ramle Wahrzeichen der Liebe, in Lyr. Blumenlese, lib. iv. p. 313

That though they pass the breeze's flight,
My bolts are not so feathery light."
He took the shaft-and, oh! thy look,
Sweet Venus! when the shaft he took-
He sigh'd, and felt the urchin's art;
He sigh'd, in agony of heart,
"It is not light-I die with pain!
Take-take thy arrow back again."
"No," said the child," it must not be,
That little dart was made for thee!"

ODE XXIX.

YES-loving a painful thrill,

And not to love, more painful still;

Yes-loving is a painful thrill,

And not to love more painful still, etc. Monsieur Menage, in the following Anacreontic, enforces the neces sity of loving:

Περί του δειν φιλησαι.

Προς Πετρον Δανιηλα Χεττον.
Μεγα θαύμα των αοιδων
Χαρίτων θαλος Πεττε,
Φιλέωμεν, ως εταιρε.
Φίλεησαν οι σοφισται.
Φίλησε σεμνός άνηρη

Το τέκνον του Σωφρονίσκου,
Софьи патир апатия.

Τι δ' ανευ γένοιτ' Έρωτος;
Ακόνη μεν έστι ψυχής. (α)
Πτερύγεσσιν εις Ολυμπον
Κατακειμένους αναιρεί,
Βραδιας τετηγμένοισι
Βέλεεσσι εξαγειρεί
Πυρι λαμπαδος φαεινω
Ρυπαρώτερους καθαιρεί.
Φιλεώμεν ουν, ΥΕΤΤΕ,
Φιλέωμεν, ως εταιρεί
Αδίκως δέ λοιδορούντι
Αγίους έρωτας ημων
Κάκον εύξομαι το μουνον
Ινα μη δύναιτ' εκείνος
Φιλέειν τε και φιλεισθα

TO PETER DANIEL HUETT.

Thou! of tuneful bards the first,
Thou! by all the Graces nursed;
Friend! each other friend above,
Come with me, and learn to love.
Loving is a simple lore,

Graver men have learn'd before;
Nay, the boast of former ages,
Wisest of the wisest sages,
Sophroniscus' prudent son,
Was by Love's illusion won.
Oh! how heavy life would move,
If we knew not how to love!
Love's a whetstone to the mind;
Thus 'tis pointed, thus refined.
When the soul dejected lies,
Love can waft it to the skies;
When in languor sleeps the heart,
Love can wake it with his dart;
When the mind is dull and dark,
Love can light it with his spark!
Come, oh! come then, let us haste
All the bliss of love to taste;
Let us love both night and day,
Let us love our lives away!
And when hearts, from loving free
(If indeed such hearts there be,)
Frown upon our gentle flame,
And the sweet delusion blame;

(a) This line is borrowed from an epigram by Alpheus of Mitylene.

ψυχης εστιν Ερως ακόνη. Menage, I think, says somewhere, that he was the first who produced this epigram to the world.

But surely 'tis the worst of pain,
To love and not be loved again!
Affection now has fled from earth,
Nor fire of genius, light of birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile
From Beauty's cheek one favouring smile.
Gold is the woman's only theme,
Gold is the woman's only dream.
Oh! never be that wretch forgiven-
Forgive him not, indignant Heaven!-
Whose grovelling eyes could first adore,
Whose heart could pant for sordid ore.
Since that devoted thirst began,
Man has forgot to feel for man;
The pulse of social life is dead,
And all its fonder feelings fled!
War too has sullied Nature's charms,

For gold provokes the world to arms!
And oh! the worst of all its art,

I feel it breaks the lover's heart!

Cupid bade me wing my pace,
And try with him the rapid race.
O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep,
With weary foot I panting flew,

My brow was chill with drops of dew
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying;

And now I thought the spark had fled, When Cupid hover'd o'er my head, And, fanning light his breezy plume, Recall'd me from my languid gloom; Then said, in accents half-reproving, Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"

ODE XXX.1

'Twas in an airy dream of night,
I fancied that I wing'd my flight
On pinions fleeter than the wind,

While little Love, whose feet were twined
(I know not why) with chains of lead,
Pursued me as I trembling fled;
Pursued-and could I e'er have thought ?—
Swift as the moment I was caught!
What does the wanton Fancy mean
By such a strange, illusive scene?
I fear she whispers to my breast,
That you, my girl, have stolen my rest;
That though my fancy, for a while,
Has hung on many a woman's smile,
I soon dissolved the passing vow,
And ne'er was caught by Love till now!

ODE XXXI.2

ARM'D with hyacinthine rod (Arms enough for such a god,)

This shall be my only curse,
(Could I, could I wish them worse?)
May they ne'er the rapture prove,

Of the smile from lips we love!

1 Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet married very late in life. I do not perceive any thing in the ode which seems to allude to matrimony, except it be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I must confess that I agree in the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure to marry.

2 The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love. Longepierre has quoted an ancient epigram (I do not know where he found it,) which has some similitude to this ode:

Lecto compositus, vix prima silentia noctis
Carpebam, et somno lumina victa dabam;
Cum me sævus Amor prensum, sursumque capillis
Excitat, et lacerum pervigilare jubet.
Tu famulus meus, inquit, ames cum mille puellas,
Solus Io, solus, dure jacere potes?

Exilio et pedibus nudis, tunicaque soluta,
Omne iter impedio, nullum iter expedio.

ODE XXXII.'

STREW me a breathing bed of leaves
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;

Nunc propero, nunc ire piget; rursumque redire
Pœnitet; et pudor est stare via media.
Ecce tacent voces hominum, strepitusque ferarum,
Et volucrum cantus, turbaque fida canum.
Solus ego ex cunctis paveo somnumque torumque,
Et sequor imperium, sæve Cupido, tuum.
Upon my couch I lay, at night profound,
My languid eyes in magic slumber bound,
When Cupid came and snatch'd me from my bed,
And forced me many a weary way to tread.
"What! (said the god) shall you, whose vows are known,
Who love so many nymphs, thus sleep alone?"
I rise and follow; all the night I stray,
Unshelter'd, trembling, doubtful of my way.
Tracing with naked foot the painful track,
Loth to proceed, yet fearful to go back.
Yes, at that hour, when Nature seems interr'd,
Nor warbling birds, nor lowing flocks are heard;
I, I alone, a fugitive from rest,

Passion my guide, and madness in my breast,
Wander the world around, unknowing where,
The slave of love, the victim of despair!

My brow was chill with drops of dew.] I have followed those who read τειρεν ίδρως fur πειρεν ύδρος; the former is partly authorized by the MS. which reads pev dpws.

And now my soul, exhausted, dying,

To my lip was faintly flying, etc.] In the original, he says his heart flew to his nose; but our manner more naturally transfers it to the lips. Such is the effect that Plato tells us he felt from a kiss, in a distich, quoted by Aulus Gellius:

Την ψυχήν, Αγαθωνα φίλων, επι χείλεσιν εσχον
Ηλθε γαρ η τλήμων ως δίαβησομενη.

Whene'er thy nectar'd kiss I sip,

And drink thy breath, in melting twine,
My soul then flutters to my lip,

Ready to fly and mix with thine.

Aulus Gellius subjoins a paraphrase of this epigram, in which we find many of those mignardises of expression, which mark the effemination of the Latin language.

And, fanning light his breezy plume,

Recall'd me from my languid gloom.] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."-La Fosse.

1 We here have the poet, in his true attributes, reclining upon myrtles, with Cupid for his cup-bearer. Some interpreters have ruined the picture by making Epws the name of his slave. None but Love should fill the goblet of Anacreon. Sappho has assigned this office to Venus, in a fragment. Ελθε, Κυπρί, χρυσειαισιν εν κυλικεσσιν αθροις συμ μεμιγμένον θαλίαισι νεκταρ οινοχοουσα τουτοισι τοις εταίροις εμοις γε και σοις.

Which may be thus paraphrased:

Hither, Venus! queen of kisses,
This shall be the night of blisses!

And, while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this delicious hour of joy
Young Love' shall be my goblet-boy;
Folding his little golden vest,

With cinctures, round his snowy breast,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!

Swift as the wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal:
A scanty dust to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 't will leave behind.
Why do we shed the rose's bloom
Upon the cold, insensate tomb!
Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,
Affect the slumbering chill of death?
No, no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
But now, while every pulse is glowing,
Now let me breathe the balsam flowing;
Now let the rose with blush of fire,
Upon my brow its scent expire;
And bring the nymph with floating eye,
Oh! she will teach me how to die!
Yes, Cupid! ere my soul retire,
To join the blest Elysian choir,
With wine, and love, and blisses dear,
I'll make my own Elysium here!

ODE XXXIII.1

"T was noon of night, when round the pole The sullen Bear is seen to roll; And mortals, wearied with the day, Are slumbering all their cares away: An infant, at that dreary hour, Came weeping to my silent bower, And waked me with a piteous prayer, To save him from the midnight air! "And who art thou," I waking cry, "That bid'st my blissful visions fly?"

This the night, to friendship dear,
Thou shalt be our Hebe here.
Fill the golden brimmer high,
Let it sparkle like thine eye!
Bid the rosy current gush,
Let it mantle like thy blush!
Venus! hast thou e'er above
Seen a feast so rich in love?
Not a soul that is not mine!

Not a soul that is not thine!

"Compare with this ode (says the German commentator) the beautiful poem in Ramler's Lyr. Blumenlese, lib. iv. p. 296. Amor als Diener."

1 Monsieur Bernarde, the author of l'Art d'aimer, has written a ballet called "Les Surprises de l'Amour,' in which the subject of the third entrée is Anacreon, and the Œuvres de story of this ode suggests one of the scenes. Bernard, Anac. scene 4th.

The German annotator refers us here to an imitation by Uz, lib. iii. "Amor und sein Bruder," and a poem of Kleist die Heilung. La Fontaine has translated, or rather imitated,

this ode.

"And who art thou," I waking cry,

"That bid'st my blissful visions fly?] Anacreon appears to have been a voluptuary even in dreaming, by the lively regret which he expresses at being disturbed from his visionary enjoyments. See the odes x. and xxxvii.

"O gentle sire!" the infant said,
In pity take me to thy shed;
Nor fear deceit : a lonely child
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
Illumes the drear and misty way!"
I hear the baby's tale of woe;
I hear the bitter night-winds blow;
And, sighing for his piteous fate,
I trimm'd my lamp, and oped the gate.
"T was Love! the little wandering sprite,
His pinion sparkled through the night!
I knew him by his bow and dart;
I knew him by my fluttering heart!
I take him in, and fondly raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And in my hand and bosom hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray
Had warm'd his anxious fears away;
"I pray thee," said the wanton child
(My bosom trembled as he smiled,)
“ I pray thee let me try my bow,
For through the rain I've wander'd so,
That much I fear the ceaseless shower
Has injured its elastic power."
The fatal bow the urchin drew;
Swift from the string the arrow flew ;
Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame,
And to my very soul it came !
"Fare thee well," I heard him say,
As laughing wild he wing'd away;
"Fare thee well, for now I know
The rain has not relax'd my bow;
It still can send a maddening dart,
As thou shalt own with all thy heart!

ODE XXXIV.'

OH thou, of all creation blest,
Sweet insect! that delight'st to rest
Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,
To drink the dew that morning drops,
And chirp thy song with such a glee,
That happiest kings may envy thee!

'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite, etc.] See the beautiful description of Cupid, by Moschus, in his first idy'

1 Father Rapin, in a Latin ode addressed to the grasshop per, has preserved some of the thoughts of our author: quæ virenti gramin's in toro, Cicada, blande sidis, et herbidos Saltus oberras, otiosos Ingeniosa ciere cantus. Seu forte adultis floribus incubas, Coeli caducis ebria fletibus, etc.

Oh thou, that on the grassy bed
Which Nature's vernal hand has spread,
Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song,
The dewy herbs and leaves among!
Whether thou liest on spring ng flowers,
Drunk with the balmy morning-showers,
Or, etc.

See what Licetus says about grasshoppers, cap. 93 and 185

And chirp thy song with such a glee, etc.] "Some authors have affirmed (says Madame Dacier,) that it is only male