TO A YOUNG GIRL.

ODE XXXIV.

Oh, fly me not, dear girl, I pray,
Though hoary be my head and grey,

Nor, though the flush of youth be thine,

An aged lover's suit decline!

See in yon garland, how the rose

Encircling fairest lilies, glows

In purest rapture! thus thy charms

Would shine triumphant in mine arms.

The most Anacreontic version of this song is by Mr. Ilay, of Edinburgh, published among those delightful and clever papers the Greek Anthology, in Blackwood's Magazine, July,

Oh, fly me not, dear girl, I pray,
Though hoary be my head and grey.

The ancients considered the hair as the

chief ornament of

the person, and always grieved at its loss. Petronius in an

epigram which is quoted in the note to the eleventh ode and of which here is a translation, laments the sad catastropheBeauty is fallen! thy hairs' soft vernal grace

To wintry baldness gives untimely place;

Thy injured temples mourn their ravaged shade;
Waste, like a stubble field, thy brow is laid.
Failacious gods! your treacherous gifts how vain!
You only give us joy to give us pain.
Unhappy youth! but late thy curling gold,
Even Phoebus self might envy to behold:
But now, nor smoothness, nor the liquid air,
Nor wave-born Tiber can with thee compare.
The laughter-loving maids you fly and fear;
And death, with hasty steps, will soon be here.
His fatal night already clouds your morn;

Beauty is gone! and thy gay locks are shorn!

See also, Junius de Pictura Veterum.

ON EUROPA.

ODE XXXV.

This beauteous bull, O boy! to me,
Jove's mighty self appears to be ;
Lo! on his back the maiden bright,
The young Sidonian meets the sight.

Unhurt the billowed sea he cleaves,
As round him roaring ocean heaves;
Yet on he takes his heedless way,
Dividing with his hoofs the spray.

What bull, indeed, could e'er thus rove?

'Tis Jove himself! 'tis mighty Jove!
And fair Europa—see, oh! see,

That navigate the yielding sea.

The picture alluded to in this ode, is probably the interesting story of the rape of Europa, so well managed by Moschus, and as beautifully translated by Polwhele. It is generally con

sidered to be an allegorical story of Commerce being carried upon the sea by the Phoenicians, the first voyagers.

Lo! on his back the maiden bright,

The young Sidonian meets the sight.

Tyre and Sidon were then flourishing cities-now heaps of ruins-shapeless masses or arid wastes! Scandaroon stands near the scites of those ancient cities.

ON HIMSELF.

ODE XXXVI.

Why, busy Rhetor! rack my mind

With wranglings, sophistry and rules? What gain is mine? no joys I find

In squabbles with proud learning's fools!

Teach me the rather than to think,

Oh, teach me now to drain the bowl! Teach me of pleasure's cup to drink, And with soft Venus cheer my soul!

Already, see! my head is crowned

With careful age's silvery die:
Then let the generous toast go round-
I'd catch the minutes as they fly!

Boy, mix me water, mix me wine,
That I may lull my soul to bliss