And thus thy wing of freedom roves,
Alas ! unlike the plumed loves,

That linger in this hapless breast,

And never, never change their nest !

Alas! unlike the plumed loves,

Still

That linger in this hapless breast,

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

Απει μοι δύνει μεν εν πασιν ήχος ερωτος,

Όμμα δε σιγα ποθοις το γλυκυ δακρυ φερει.

Ουδ' ή νυξ, ου φεγίος εκοιμισεν, αλλ' ύπο φίλτρων
Ηδε πε κραδίη γνωςος ένεςι τύπος.

Ω πτανοι, μη και ποτ' εφιπτασθαι μεν ερωτες
Οιδατ', αποπτηναι δ' εθ ̓ ὅσον ισχυετε ; .

'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.

A wound within my heart I find,

And oh ! 't is plain where Love has been ;

For still he leaves a wound behind,

Such as within my heart is seen.

Still every year, and all the

year,

A

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.

Oh bird of Love! with song so drear,

1

Make not my soul the nest of pain;
Oh! let the wing which brought thee here,

In pity waft thee hence again!

But

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

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.
'Twas 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

"The German poet Uz has imitated this ode. Compare also Weisse Scherz. Lieder. lib. iii. der Soldat." Gail, Degen. No-from an eye of liquid blue,

A host of quiver'd cupids flew ;] Longepierre has quoted part

1

of

And now my heart all bleeding lies

Beneath this army of the eyes!

of an epigram from the seventh book of the Anthologia, which has a fancy something like this:

Ου με λέληθας

Τοξοτα, Ζηνοφίλας ομματι κρυπτομενος.

Archer Love! though slily creeping,

Well I know where thou dost lie;
I saw thee through the curtain peeping,
That fringes Zenophelia'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."

ODE