A French translation by La Fosse, 1704.

« L'Histoire des Odes d'Anacréon,» by Monsieur GaRotterdam, 1712.

con;

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 1.4

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 Anacréon.e-Menagiana, seconde partie.

I find in Haym's Notizia de' Libri rari, an Italian translation mentioned, by Gaponne 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 Του αυτού βασιλικώς in the margin, which are merely intended as a title to the following ode. Whether it be the production of Anaereon 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 2IXEUVOC ?» There are surely many tell-tales of this propensity; and the following are the indices, which the physiognomist gives, describing a disposition perhaps not Οφθαλμοι κλυζόμενοι, κυμαινον unlike that of Anacreon: τες εν αυτοίς, εις αφροδίσια και ευπάθειαν επτούνται. ούτε δε αδικοι, ούτε κακουργοί, ουτε φύσεως φαυλής, CUTE Aμov.-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..

Baptista Porta tells us some strange opinions of the ancient physiognomists on this subject, their reasons for which were curious, and perhaps not altogether fanciful. Vide Physiognom. Johan. Baptist.

Porta.

His lip exhaled, whene'er he sighi'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!

And ah! I feel its magic now!) This idea, as Longepierre remarks, is in an epigram of the seventh book of the Anthologia.

Έξοτε μοι πίνοντι συνεςάουσα Χαρικλώ
Λαθρη τους ιδίους αμφέβαλε σεφανους,
Πυρ όλον δαπτει 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!

Proclaim the laws of festal rite.] The ancients prescribed certain laws of drinking at their festivals, for an account of which see the commentators. Anacreon here acts the symposiarch, or master of the festival. I have translated according to those who consider Xuπολλά θεσμών as an inversion of θεσμούς κυπελλων.

ODE III.'

LISTEN to the Muse's lyre,

Master of the pencil's fire!

Sketch'd in painting's bold display,

Many a city first pourtray;
Many a city, revelling free,
Warm with loose festivity.
Picture then a rosy train,
Bacchants straying o'er the plain;
Piping, as they roam along,
Roundelay or shepherd-song.
Paint me next, if painting may
Such a theme as this pourtray,
All the happy heaven of love,
These elect of Cupid prove.

ODE IV.2

VULCAN! hear your glorious task;
I do not from your labours ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,

For war was ne'er a sport of mine.
No-let ine have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul;
But let not o'er its simple frame
Your mimic constellations flame;
Nor grave upon the swelling side
Orion, scowling o'er the tide.

I care not for the glittering wane,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But oh! let vines luxuriant roll
Their blushing tendrils round the bowl.
While many a rose-lipp'd bacchaunt maid
Is culling clusters in their shade.
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,
Wildly press the gushing grapes;
And flights of loves, in wanton ringlets,
Flit around on golden winglets;
While Venus, to her mystic bower,
Beckons the rosy vintage-Power.

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!

Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit amorem
Et simal annexis floribus implicuit,
Luctatur primo, et contra nitentibus alis
Indomitus tentat solvere vincla puer,
Mox abi lacteolas et diguas matre papillas
Vidit et ora ipsos nota movere Deos.
Impositusque come ambrosios ut sentit odores
Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs;

.1 (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 wore,
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 bouds the virgi› tied;
But when he saw her bosom's milky swell,
Her features, where the eye of love might dwell;
And caught the ambrosial odours of her hair,
Kich as the breathings of Arabían air;

Oh! mother Venuss (said the raptured child
By charms, of more than mertal bloom, beguiled),
Go, sek another boy, thou'st lest 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 bor uno, her altro fiore
Vicina a un rio di chiare et lucid' onde,

Lidia, etc. etc.

Alberti bas imitated this ode, in a poem beginning

Nisa mi dice e Clori

Tirsi, ta 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

Είτ' εισιν, ειτ' απήλθον Our' vida.

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 vulgar

beentiousness.

That still as death approaches 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.
Gail de Editionibus.

-Degen.

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

Stobaus.

I care not for the idle state

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

Ου μοι τα Γυγεα του πολυχρυσου μελεί.-ΒιιΕ8.

In one of the monkish imitators of Anacreon we find the same thought.

Ψυχήν εμήν ερωτως
Τι σοι θελεις γενέσθαι;

Θελεις Γυγέω, τα και τας

In the original, propoios

Be mine the odours, richly sighing, Amidst my heary tresses flying.] καταβρέχειν 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 mook, who was nursing his beard with anguents. But he should have known that this was an ancient castern custom, which, if we may believe Savary, still exists: Vous voyez, Monsieur (says this traveller), que l'us ge antique de se parfumer la tête et la barbe, (a) célébré par le prophète Roi, subsiste encor 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 hues

Hæc mibi cura, ros s 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 barbara davon.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!»

2 This ode is addressel to a swallow. I find from Degen and from Gail's index, that the German pet Weisse has imitated it, Scherz. Lieder. 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 Aliphron, tenth epistle, third book; chers Tophon complains to Friston of being wakened, by the crowing of a cock, from has vision of riches. Silly swallow! prating thing, etc.] The loquacity of the swallow was proverbialized; thus Nicostratus:

Ει το συνεχώς και πολλά και ταχέως λαλειμ
Ην του φρονείν παράσημον, αἱ χελιδόνες
Ελέγοντ' αν ήμων σωφρονέσεται πολυ.

Or, as Tereus did of old
(So the fabled tale is told),
Shall I tear that tongue away,
Tongue that utter'd such a lay?
How unthinking hast thou been!
Long before the dawn was seen,
When I slumber'd in a dream,
(Love was the delicious theme!)
Just when I was nearly blest,
Ah! thy matin broke my rest!

ODE XI.1

« TELL me, gentle youth, I pray thee,
What in purchase shall I pay thee
For this little waxen toy,
Image of the Paphian boy?»
Thus I said, the other day,

To a youth who pass'd my way.
«Sir,» (he answer'd, and the while
Answer'd all in Doric style,)
«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,» Isaid, 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 pratile 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 respetable ancients assigned this metamorphose to Progne, and made Philad¦

the swallow, as Anacreon does here.

It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simp of this ode, and the hamour of the turn with which it conclades. I' feed that the translation must appear very vapid, if not ludureas, an English reader.

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 name he howls around, etc.] I have adopted the accentu ation 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 his Anacreontica:

Semel ut concitus œstro,

Veluti qui Clarias aquas
Ebibere loquaces,

Quo plus canunt, plura volunt.

While waves of perfume, etc.] Spaletti has mistaken the import of xopes, 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?

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.1

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

Lavossi Amore in quel vicino fiumé
Ove giuro (Pastor) che bevend 'io
Bevei le fiamme, anzi l' istesso Dio,
Chor con l' humide piume

Lascivetto mi scherza al cor intorno.
Ma che sareis' to lo beressi un giorno.
Bacco, nel tuo liquore?

Sarei, 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,
'Twas liquid flame 1 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 bas parodied this thought in the following extravagant lines;

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

Ωπλισμοι προς έρωτα περί περνοισι λογισμόν,
Ουδε με νικήσει, μόνος των προς ένα.
Θνατος δ' αθανατῷ συνελεύσομαι. ην δε βοηθον
Βακχον έχη, τι μόνος προς δυ' 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 Cupid 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.

Προς Βίωνα.

Εν αλάτων τα φυλλα,
Λειμωνίους τε ποίας,
Ει νυκτος αέρα παντα,
Παράκτιους τε ψάμμους,
Αλος τε κυματωδή,
Δύνη, Βίων, αριθμειν,
Και τους έμους έρωτας
Δυνη, Βίων, αριθμειν.
Κόρην, Γυναίκα, Χήραν,
Σμικρην, Μεσην, Μεγίστην,