Chapter IV: Letter I: From the Princess Charlotte of Wales to the Lady Barbara (1)

Ashley. II. From Colonel M'Mahon to Gould Francis Leckie, Esq. III. From George Prince Regent to the Earl of Yarmouth. IV. From the Right Hon. Patrick Duigenan to the Right Hon. Sir John Nicol. V. From the Countess Dowager of Cork to Lady ----. VI. From Abdallah, in London, to Mohassan, in Ispahan. VII. From Messrs. Lackington and Co. to Thomas Moore, Esq. VIII. From Colonel Thomas to ---- Skeffington, Esq. Appendix. In the Morning of Life. Intolerance, a Satire. Invisible Girl, To the. Invitation to Dinner. Irish Antiquities. Irish Peasant to His Mistress, The. Irish Slave, The. I saw from the Beach. I saw the Moon rise Clear. I saw Thy Form in Youthful Prime. Is it not Sweet to think. Hereafter. It is not the Tear at This Moment shed. I've a Secret to tell Thee. I Will, I will, the Conflict's past. I wish I was by That Dim Lake.

Joke Versified, A. Joys of Youth, how fleeting.

Keep Those Eyes Still Purely Mine. King Crack and His Idols. Kiss, The.

Lalla Rookh. Lament for the Loss of Lord Bathurst's Tail. Language of Flowers, The. Late Scene at Swanage, A. Latest Accounts from Olympus. Late Tithe Case. Leaf and the Fountain, The. Legacy, The. Legend of Puck the Fairy, The. Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye. Les Hommes Automates. Let Erin remember the Days of Old. Let Joy Alone be remembered Now. Let's take This World as Some Wide Scene. Letter from Larry O'Branigan to the Rev. Murtagh O'Mulligan. Light of the Haram, The. Light sounds the Harp. Like Morning When Her Early Breeze. Like One Who, doomed. Limbo of Lost Reputations, The. Lines on the Death of Joseph Atkinson, Esq., of Dublin. Lines on the Death of Mr. Perceval. Lines on the Death of Sheridan. Lines on the Departure of Lords Castlereagh and Stewart for the Continent. Lines on the Entry of the Austrians into Naples. Lines written at the Cohos, or Falls of the Mohawk River. Lines written in a Storm at Sea. Lines written on leaving Philadelphia. Literary Advertisement. Little Man and Little Soul. "Living Dog" and "the Dead Lion," The. Long Years have past. Lord Henley and St. Cecilia. Lord, Who shall bear That Day. Love Alone. Love and Hope. Love and Hymen. Love and Marriage. Love and Reason. Love and the Novice. Love and the Sun-Dial. Love and Time. Love is a Hunter-Boy. Love's Light Summer-Cloud. Loves of the Angels, The. Love's Victory. Love's Young Dream. Love Thee. Love Thee, Dearest? Love Thee. Love, wandering Thro' the Golden Maze. Lusitanian War-Song. Lying.

Mad Tory and the Comet, The. Magic Mirror, The. Meeting of the Ships, The. Meeting of the Waters, The. Melologue. Memorabilia of Last Week. Merrily Every Bosom boundeth. Millennium, The. Mind Not Tho' Daylight. Minstrel-Boy, The. Missing. Morality. Moral Positions. Mountain Sprite, The. Mr. Roger Dodsworth. Musical Box, The. Musings of an Unreformed Peer. Musings, suggested by the Late Promotion of Mrs. Nethercoat. My Birth-Day. My Gentle Harp. My Harp has One Unchanging Theme. My Heart and Lute. My Mopsa is Little.

Natal Genius, The. Nature's Labels. Nay, tell Me Not, Dear. Ne'er ask the Hour. Ne'er Talk of Wisdom's Gloomy Schools. Nets and Cages. New Costume of the Ministers, The. New Creation of Peers. New-Fashioned Echoes. New Grand Exhibition of Models New Hospital for Sick Literati. News for Country Cousins. Night Dance, The. Nights of Music. Night Thought, A. No--leave My Heart to Rest. Nonsense. Not from Thee. Notions on Reform. Numbering of the Clergy, The.

Occasional Address for the Opening of the New Theatre of St. Stephen. Occasional Epilogue. Odes to Nea. Ode to a Hat. Ode to Don Miguel. Ode to Ferdinand. Ode to the Goddess Ceres. Ode to the Sublime Porte. Ode to the Woods and Forests. O'Donohue's Mistress. Oft, in the Stilly Night. Oh! Arranmore, Loved Arranmore. Oh Banquet Not. Oh! Blame Not the Bard. Oh! Breathe Not His Name. Oh, call it by Some Better Name. Oh, come to Me When Daylight sets. Oh, could We do with This World of Ours. Oh, Days of Youth. Oh, do not look so Bright and Blest. Oh! doubt Me Not. Oh Fair! oh Purest. Oh for the Swords of Former Tim. Oh, guard our Affection. Ob! had We Some Bright Little Isle of Our Own. Oh, No--Not--Even. When First We loved. Oh, Soon return. Oh, teach Me to love Thee. Oh the Shamrock. Oh, the Sight Entrancing. Oh! think Not My Spirits are Always as Light. Oh Thou Who dry'st the Mourner's Tear. Oh, Ye Dead. On a Squinting Poetess. One Bumper at Parting. One Dear Smile. On Music. On the Death of a Friend. On the Death of a Lady. Origin of the Harp, The. O say, Thou Best and Brightest. Our First Young Love.

Paddy's Metamorphosis. Paradise and the Peri. Parallel, The. Parody of a Celebrated Letter. Parting before the Battle, The. Pastoral Ballad, A. Peace and Glory. Peace be around Thee. Peace, Peace to Him That's gone. Peace to the Slumberers. Periwinkles and the Locusts, The. Petition of the Orangemen of Ireland, The. Philosopher Artistippus to a Lamp, The. Pilgrim, The. Poor Broken Flower. Poor Wounded; Heart. Pretty Rose-tree. Prince's Day, The. Proposals for a Gynsecocracy.

Quick! We have but a Second.

Reason, Folly, and Beauty. Recent Dialogue, A. Rector and His Curate, The. Reflection at Sea, A. Reflections. Reinforcements for Lord Wellington. Religion and Trade. Remember Thee. Remember the Time. Remonstrance. Resemblance, The. Resolutions passed at a Late Meeting of Reverends and Right Reverends. Reuben and Rose. Reverend Pamphleteer, The. Rhymes on the Road. Introductory Rhymes. Extract I. Geneva. II. Geneva. III. Geneva. IV. Milan. V. Padua. VI. Venice. VII. Venice. VIII. Venice. IX. Venice. X. Mantua. XI. Florence. XII. Florence. XIII. Rome. XIV. Rome. XV. Rome. XVI. Les Charmettes. Rich and Rare were the Gems She wore. Rings and Seals. Ring, The. Ring, The. Rival Topics. Rondeau. Rose of the Desert. Round the World goes. Row Gently Here. Russian Lover, The.

Sad Case, A. Sail on, sail on. Sale of Cupid. Sale of Loves, The. Sale of Tools, The. Say, What shall be Our Sport To-day. Say, What shall We dance. Scene from a Play. Scepticism. Sceptic, The. Second Angel's Story. See the Dawn from Heaven. Selections. Shall the Harp Then be Silent. She is Far from the Land. She sung of Love. Shield, The. Shine Out, Stars. Should Those Fond Hopes. Shrine, The. Silence is in Our Festal Halls. Since First Thy Word. Sing--sing--Music was given. Sing, Sweet Harp. Sinking Fund cried, The. Sir Andrew's Dream. Sketch of the First Act of a New Romantic Drama. Slumber, oh slumber. Snake, The. Snow Spirit, The. Some Account of the Late Dinner to Dan. Song.--Ah! Where are They, Who heard, in Former Hours. Array Thee, Love, Array Thee, Love. As by the Shore, at Break of Day. As Love One Summer Eve was straying. As o'er Her Loom the Lesbian Maid. As Once a Grecian Maiden wove. Bring Hither, bring Thy Lute, while Day is dying. Calm as Beneath its Mother's eyes. Fly from the World, O Bessy! to Me. Have You not seen the Timid Tear. Here, While the Moonlight Dim. If I swear by That Eye, You'll allow. If to see Thee be to love Thee. I saw from Yonder Silent Cave. March! nor heed Those Anna That hold Thee. Mary, I believed Thee True. No Life is Like the Mountaineer's. Of All My Happiest Hours of Joy. Oh, Memory, How Coldly. Oh, Where art Thou dreaming. Raise the Buckler-poise the Lance. Smoothly flowing Thro' Verdant Vales. Some Mortals There may be, so Wise, or so Fine. Take back the Sigh, Thy Lips of Art. The Wreath You wove, the Wreath You wove. Think on that Look Whose Melting Ray. Thou art not Dead--Thou art not Dead. "'Tis the Vine! 'tis the Vine!" said the Cup-loving Boy. Up and march! the Timbrel's Sound. Up with the Sparkling Brimmer. Weeping for Thee, My Love, Thro' the Long Day. Welcome Sweet Bird, Thro' the Sunny Air winging. When Evening Shades are falling. When the Balaika. When Time Who steals Our Years Away. Where is the Heart That would not give. "Who comes so Gracefully,". Who'll buy?--'tis Folly's Shop, who'll buy. Why does Azure deck the Sky. Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn. Song and Trio. Song and Trio. Song of a Hyperborean. Song of Fionnuala, The. Song of Hercules to his Daughter. Song of Innisfall. Song of Old Puck. Song of O'Ruark, The. Song of the Battle Eve. Song of the Box, The. Song of the Departing Spirit of Tithe. Song of the Evil Spirit of the Woods. Song of the Nubian Girl. Song of the Olden Time, The. Song of the Poco-Curante Society. Song of the two Cupbearers. Songs of the Church. Sound the Loud Timbrel. Sovereign Woman. So Warmly We met. Spa, The Wellington. Speculation, A. Speech on the Umbrella Question. Spring and Autumn. Stanzas. Stanzas from the Banks of the Shannon. Stanzas written in Anticipation of Defeat. Steersman's Song, The. Still, like Dew in Silence falling. Still Thou fliest. Still When Daylight. St. Jerome on Earth. Stranger, The. St. Senanus and the Lady. Study from the Antique, A. Sublime was the Warning. Summer Fête, The. Summer Webs, The. Sunday Ethics. Surprise, The. Sweet Innisfallen. Sylph's Ball, The. Sympathy.

Take Back the Virgin Page. Take Hence the Bowl. Tear, The. Tell Her, oh, tell Her. Tell-Tale Lyre, The. Temple to Friendship, A. The Bird, let Loose. Thee, Thee, Only Thee. Then, Fare Thee Well. Then First from Love. There are Sounds of Mirth. There comes a Time. There is a Bleak Desert. There's Something Strange. They know not My Heart. They may rail at This Life. They met but Once. They tell Me Thou'rt the Favored Guest. Third Angel's Story. This Life is All checkered with Pleasures and Woes. This World is All a Fleeting Show.. Tho, Humble the Banquet. Tho' Lightly sounds the Song I sing. Those Evening Bells. Tho' the Last Glimpse of Erin with Sorrow I see. Tho' 'tis All but a Dream. Thou art, O God. Thou bidst Me sing. Thoughts on Mischief. Thoughts on Patrons, Puffs, and Other Matters. Thoughts on Tar Barrels. Thoughts on the Late Destructive Propositions of the Tories. Thoughts on the Present Government of Ireland. Thou lovest No More. Three Doctors, The. Tibullus to Sulpicia. Time I've lost in wooing, The. 'Tis All for Thee. 'Tis Gone, and For Ever. 'Tis Sweet to think. 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer. To......: And hast Thou marked the Pensive Shade. To......: Come, take Thy Harp--'tis vain to muse. To......: Never mind How the Pedagogue proses. To......: Put off the Vestal Veil, nor, oh. To......: Remember Him Thou leavest behind. To......: Sweet Lady, look not Thus Again. To......: That Wrinkle, when First I espied it. To......: The World had just begun to steal. To......: 'Tis Time, I feel, to leave Thee Now. To......: To be the Theme of Every Hour. To......: When I loved You, I can't but allow. To......: With All My Soul, Then, let us part. To......'s Picture: Go Then, if She, Whose Shade Thou art. To a Boy, with a Watch. To a Lady, with Some Manuscript Poems. To a Lady, on Her singing. To Cara, after an Interval of Absence. To Cara, oh the Dawning of a New Year's Day. To Caroline, Viscountess Valletort. To Cloe. To-Day, Dearest, is Ours. To George Morgan, Esq. To His Serene Highness the Duke of Montpensier. To James Corry, Esq. To Joseph Atkinson, Esq. To Julia, in Allusion to Some Illiberal Criticisms. To Julia: Mock me No More with Love's Beguiling Dream. To Julia: Though Fate, My Girl, may bid Us part. To Julia, on Her Birthday. To Julia: I saw the Peasant's Hand Unkind. To Julia weeping. To Ladies' Eyes. To Lady Heathcote. To Lady Holland. To Lady Jersey. To Lord Viscount Strangford. To Miss Moore. To Miss Susan Beckford. To Miss ---- on Her asking the Author Why She had Sleepless Nights. To Mrs. Bl----, written in Her Album. To Mrs. ----, on Some Calumnies against Her Character. To Mrs. ----: To see Thee Every Day That came. To Mrs. ----, on Her Beautiful Translation of Voiture's Kiss. To Mrs. Henry Tighe. To My Mother. To Phillis. To Rosa, written during Illness. To Rosa: And are You Then a Thing of Art. To Rosa. Is the Song of Rosa Mute. To Rosa: Like One Who trusts to Summer Skies. To Rosa; Say Why should the Girl of My Soul be in Tears. Tory Pledges. To Sir Hudson Lowe. To the Boston Frigate. To the Fire-Fly. To the Flying-Fish. To the Honorable W. R. Spencer. To the Lady Charlotte Rawdon. To the Large and Beautiful Miss ----. To the Lord Viscount Forbes. To the Marchioness Dowager of Donegall. To the Rev. Charles Overton. To the Reverend ----. To Thomas Hume, Esq., M.D. To the Ship in Which Lord Castlereagh sailed for the Continent. Tout pour la Tripe. To weave a Garland for the Rose. Translation from the Gull Language. Translations from Catullus. Trio. Triumph of Bigotry. Triumph of Farce, The. Turf shall be My Fragrant Shrine, The 'Twas One of Those Dreams. Two Loves, The. Twin'st Thou with' Lofty Wreath Thy Brow.

Unbind Thee, Love. Up, Sailor Boy, 'tis Day.

Valley of the Nile, The. Variety. Veiled Prophet of Khorassan, The. Verses to the Poet Crabbe's Inkstand. Vision, A. Vision of Philosophy, A. Voice, The.

Wake Thee, My Dear. Wake Up, Sweet Melody. Waltz Duet. Wandering Bard, The. War against Babylon. Warning, A. War Song. Watchman, The. Weep, Children of Israel. Weep not for Those. Weep on, weep on. Wellington, Lord, and the Ministers. Wellington Spa, The. We may roam through This World. Were not the Sinful Mary's Tears. What shall I sing Thee. What's My Thought like. What the Bee is to the Floweret. When Abroad in the World. When Cold in the Earth. When e'er I see Those Smiling Eyes. When First I met Thee. When First That Smile. When He, Who adores Thee. When Love was a Child. When Love, Who ruled. When Midst the Gay I meet. When Night brings the Hour. When on the Lip the Sigh delays. When the First Summer Bee. When the Sad Word. When the Wine-Cup is smiling. When Thou shalt wander. When Through the Piazzetta. When to Sad Music Silent You listen. When Twilight Dews. Where are the Visions. Where is the Slave. Where is Your Dwelling, Ye Sainted. Where shall We bury our Shame. While gazing on the Moon's Light. While History's Muse. Who is the Maid. Who'll buy My Love Knots. Why does She so Long delay. Wind Thy Horn, My Hunter Boy. Wine-Cup is circling, The. With Moonlight beaming. Woman. Wonder, The. World was husht. Wo! wo. Wreath and the Chain, The. Wreaths for the Ministers. Wreath the Bowl. Write on, write on. Written in a Commonplace Book. Written in the Blank Leaf of a Lady's Commonplace Book. Written on passing Deadman's Island.

Yes, yes, When the Bloom. Young Indian Maid, The. Young Jessica. Young May Moon, The. Young Muleteers of Grenada, The. Young Rose, The. You remember Ellen. Youth and Age.

ODES OF ANACREON

(1800).

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH VERSE.

WITH NOTES.

TO

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCE OF WALES.

SIR,--In allowing me to dedicate this Work to Your Royal Highness, you have conferred upon me an honor which I feel very sensibly: and I have only to regret that the pages which you have thus distinguished are not more deserving of such illustrious patronage.

Believe me, SIR, With every sentiment of respect, Your Royal Highness's Very grateful and devoted Servant,

THOMAS MOORE.

REMARKS ON ANACREON

There is but little known, with certainty of the life of Anacreon. Chamaeleon Heracleotes, who wrote upon the subject, has been lost in the general wreck of ancient literature. The editors of the poet have collected the few trifling anecdotes which are scattered through the extant authors of antiquity, and, supplying the deficiency of materials by fictions of their own imagination, have arranged what they call a life of Anacreon. These specious fabrications are intended to indulge that interest which we naturally feel in the biography of illustrious men; but it is rather a dangerous kind of illusion, as it confounds the limits of history and romance, and is too often supported by unfaithful citation.

Our poet was born in the city of Teos, in the delicious region of Ionia, and the time of his birth appears to have been in the sixth century before Christ. He flourished at that remarkable period when, under the polished tyrants Hipparchus and Polycrates, Athens and Samos were become the rival asylums of genius. There is nothing certain known about his family; and those who pretend to discover in Plato that he was a descendant of the monarch Codrus, show much more of zeal than of either accuracy or judgment.

The disposition and talents of Anacreon recommended him to the monarch of Samos, and he was formed to be the friend of such a prince as Polycrates. Susceptible only to the pleasures, he felt not the corruptions, of the court; and while Pythagoras fled from the tyrant, Anacreon was celebrating his praises oh the lyre. We are told, too, by Maximus Tyrius, that, by the influence of his amatory songs, he softened the mind of Polycrates into a spirit of benevolence towards his subjects.

The amours of the poet, and the rivalship of the tyrant, I shall pass over in silence; and there are few, I presume, who will regret the omission of most of those anecdotes, which the industry of some editors has not only promulged, but discussed. Whatever is repugnant to modesty and virtue is considered, in ethical science, by a supposition very favorable to humanity, as impossible; and this amiable persuasion should be much more strongly entertained where the transgression wars with nature as well as virtue. But why are we not allowed to indulge in the presumption? Why are we officiously reminded that there have been really such instances of depravity?

Hipparchus, who now maintained at Athens the power which his father Pisistratus had usurped, was one of those princes who may be said to have polished the fetters of their subjects. He was the first, according to Plato, who edited the poems of Homer, and commanded them to be sung by the rhapsodists at the celebration of the Panathenaea. From his court, which was a sort of galaxy of genius, Anacreon could not long be absent. Hipparchus sent a barge for him; the poet readily embraced the invitation, and the Muses and the Loves were wafted with him to Athens.

The manner of Anacreon's death was singular. We are told that in the eighty-fifth year of his age he was choked by a grape-stone; and however we may smile at their enthusiastic partiality who see in this easy and characteristic death a peculiar indulgence of Heaven, we cannot help admiring that his fate should have been so emblematic of his disposition. Caelius Calcagninus alludes to this catastrophe in the following epitaph on our poet:--

Those lips, then, hallowed sage, which poured along
A music sweet as any cygnet's song,
The grape hath closed for ever!
Here let the ivy kiss the poet's tomb,
Here let the rose he loved with laurels bloom,
In bands that ne'er shall sever.
But far be thou, oh! far, unholy vine,
By whom the favorite minstrel of the Nine
Lost his sweet vital breath;
Thy God himself now blushes to confess,
Once hallowed vine! he feels he loves thee less,
Since poor Anacreon's death.

It has been supposed by some writers that Anacreon and Sappho were contemporaries; and the very thought of an intercourse between persons so congenial, both in warmth of passion and delicacy of genius, gives such play to the imagination that the mind loves to indulge in it. But the vision dissolves before historical truth; and Chamaeleon, and Hermesianax, who are the source of the supposition, are considered as having merely indulged in a poetical anachronism.

To infer the moral dispositions of a poet from the tone of sentiment which pervades his works, is sometimes a very fallacious analogy; but the soul of Anacreon speaks so unequivocally through his odes, that we may safely consult them as the faithful mirrors of his heart. We find him there the elegant voluptuary, diffusing the seductive charm of sentiment over passions and propensities at which rigid morality must frown. His heart, devoted to indolence, seems to have thought that there is wealth enough in happiness, but seldom happiness in mere wealth. The cheerfulness, indeed, with which he brightens his old age is interesting and endearing; like his own rose, he is fragrant even in decay. But the most peculiar feature of his mind is that love of simplicity, which be attributes to himself so feelingly, and which breathes characteristically throughout all that he has sung. In truth, if we omit those few vices in our estimate which religion, at that time, not only connived at, but consecrated, we shall be inclined to say that the disposition of our poet was amiable; that his morality was relaxed, but not abandoned; and that Virtue, with her zone loosened, may be an apt emblem of the character of Anacreon.

Of his person and physiognomy, time has preserved such uncertain memorials, that it were better, perhaps, to leave the pencil to fancy; and few can read the Odes of Anacreon without imaging to themselves the form of the animated old bard, crowned with roses, and singing cheerfully to his lyre.

After the very enthusiastic eulogiums bestowed both by ancients and moderns upon the poems of Anacreon, we need not be diffident in expressing our raptures at their beauty, nor hesitate to pronounce them the most polished remains of antiquity. They are indeed, all beauty, all enchantment. He steals us so insensibly along with him, that we sympathize even in his excesses. In his amatory odes there is a delicacy of compliment not to be found in any other ancient poet. Love at that period was rather an unrefined emotion; and the intercourse of the sexes was animated more by passion than by sentiment. They knew not those little tendernesses which form the spiritual part of affection; their expression of feeling was therefore rude and unvaried, and the poetry of love deprived it of its most captivating graces. Anacreon, however, attained some ideas of this purer gallantry; and the same delicacy of mind which led him to this refinement, prevented him also from yielding to the freedom of language which has sullied the pages of all the other poets. His descriptions are warm; but the warmth is in the ideas, not the words. He is sportive without being wanton, and ardent without being licentious. His poetic invention is always most brilliantly displayed in those allegorical fictions which so many have endeavored to imitate, though all have confessed them to be inimitable. Simplicity is the distinguishing feature of these odes, and they interest by their innocence, as much as they fascinate by their beauty. They may be said, indeed, to be the very infants of the Muses, and to lisp in numbers.

I shall not be accused of enthusiastic partiality by those who have read and felt the original; but to others, I am conscious, this should not be the language of a translator, whose faint reflection of such beauties can but ill justify his admiration of them.

In the age of Anacreon music and poetry were inseparable. These kindred talents were for a long time associated, and the poet always sung his own compositions to the lyre. It is probable that they were not set to any regular air, but rather a kind of musical recitation, which was varied according to the fancy and feelings of the moment. The poems of Anacreon were sung at banquets as late as the time of Aulus Gellius, who tells us that he heard one of the odes performed at a birthday entertainment.

The singular beauty of our poet's style and the apparent facility, perhaps, of his metre have attracted, as I have already remarked, a crowd of imitators. Some of these have succeeded with wonderful felicity, as may be discerned in the few odes which are attributed to writers of a later period. But none of his emulators have been half so dangerous to his fame as those Greek ecclesiastics of the early ages, who, being conscious of their own inferiority to their great prototypes, determined on removing all possibility of comparison, and, under a semblance of moral zeal, deprived the world of some of the most exquisite treasures of ancient times. The works of Sappho and Alcaeus were among those flowers of Grecian literature which thus fell beneath the rude hand of ecclesiastical presumption. It is true they pretended that this sacrifice of genius was hallowed by the interests of religion, but I have already assigned the most probable motive; and if Gregorius Nazianzenus had not written Anacreontics, we might now perhaps have the works of the Teian unmutilated, and be empowered to say exultingly with Horace,

_Nec si quid olim lusit Anacreon
delevit aetas_.

The zeal by which these bishops professed to be actuated gave birth more innocently, indeed, to an absurd species of parody, as repugnant to piety as it is to taste, where the poet of voluptuousness was made a preacher of the gospel, and his muse, like the Venus in armor at Lacedaemon, was arrayed in all the severities of priestly instruction. Such was the "Anacreon Recantatus," by Carolus de Aquino, a Jesuit, published 1701, which consisted of a series of palinodes to the several songs of our poet. Such, too, was the Christian Anacreon of Patrignanus, another Jesuit, who preposterously transferred to a most sacred subject all that the Graecian poet had dedicated to festivity and love.

His metre has frequently been adopted by the modern Latin poets; and Scaliger, Taubman, Barthius, and others, have shown that it is by no means uncongenial with that language. The Anacreontics of Scaliger, however, scarcely deserve the name; as they glitter all over with conceits, and, though often elegant, are always labored. The beautiful fictions of Angerianus preserve more happily than any others the delicate turn of those allegorical fables, which, passing so frequently through the mediums of version and imitation, have generally lost their finest rays in the transmission. Many of the Italian poets have indulged their fancies upon the subjects; and in the manner of Anacreon, Bernardo Tasso first introduced the metre, which was afterwards polished and enriched by Chabriera and others.

ODES OF ANACREON

ODE I.[1]

I saw the smiling bard of pleasure, The minstrel of the Teian measure; 'Twas in a vision of the night, He beamed upon my wondering sight. I heard his voice, and warmly prest 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. His lip exhaled, when'er he sighed, 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 wreath, whose inmost twine Breathed of him and blushed 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.

[1] 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 mislead. 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.

ODE II.

Give me the harp of epic song, Which Homer's finger thrilled along; But tear away the sanguine string, For war is not the theme I sing. Proclaim the laws of festal right,[1] 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. Great Bacchus! we shall sing to thee, In wild but sweet ebriety; Flashing around such sparks of thought, As Bacchus could alone have taught.

Then, give the harp of epic song, Which Homer's finger thrilled along; But tear away the sanguine string, For war is not the theme I sing.

[1] 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.

ODE III.[1]

Listen to the Muse's lyre, Master of the pencil's fire! Sketched in painting's bold display, Many a city first portray; Many a city, revelling free, Full of 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 portray, All the earthly heaven of love These delighted mortals prove.

[1] 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.

ODE IV.[1]

Vulcan! hear your glorious task; I did not from your labors ask In gorgeous panoply to shine, For war was ne'er a sport of mine. No--let me have a silver bowl, Where I may cradle all my soul; But mind that, o'er its simple frame No mimic constellations flame; Nor grave upon the swelling side, Orion, scowling o'er the tide.

I care not for the glittering wain, Nor yet the weeping sister train. But let the vine luxuriant roll Its blushing tendrils round the bowl, While many a rose-lipped bacchant maid Is culling clusters in their shade. Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes, Wildly press the gushing grapes, And flights of Loves, in wanton play, Wing through the air their winding way; While Venus, from her arbor green, Looks laughing at the joyous scene, And young Lyaeus by her side Sits, worthy of so bright a bride.

[1] This ode, Aulus Gellius tells us, was performed at an entertainment where he was present.

ODE V.

Sculptor, wouldst thou glad my soul, Grave for me an ample bowl, Worthy to shine in hall or bower, When spring-time brings the reveller's hour. Grave it with themes of chaste design, Fit for a simple board like mine. Display not there the barbarous rites In which religious zeal delights; Nor any tale of tragic fate Which History shudders 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, linked with Love, Stray, laughing, through the shadowy grove; While rosy boys disporting round, In circlets trip the velvet ground. But ah! if there Apollo toys,[1] I tremble for the rosy boys.

[1] An allusion to the fable that Apollo had killed his beloved boy Hyacinth, while playing with him at quoits. "This" (says M. La Fosse) "is assuredly the sense of the text, and it cannot admit of any other."

ODE VI.[1]

As late I sought the spangled bowers, To cull a wreath of matin flowers, Where many an early rose was weeping, I found the urchin Cupid sleeping, I caught the boy, a goblet's tide Was richly mantling by my side, I caught him by his downy wing, And whelmed him in the racy spring. Then drank I down the poisoned bowl, And love now nestles in my soul. Oh, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest, I feel him fluttering in my breast.

[1] This beautiful fiction, which the commentators have attributed to Julian, a royal poet, the Vatican MS. pronounces to be the genuine offspring of Anacreon.

ODE VII.

The women tell me every day That all my bloom has pas 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 thinned 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, 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.[1]

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 wreath, Its freshness o'er my brow to breathe; Be mine the rich perfumes that flow, To cool and scent my locks of snow. To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine As if to-morrow ne'er would 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 dimmed their bloomy light, Let us the festal hours beguile With mantling pup and cordial smile; And shed from each new 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!

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

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!" Alcmaeon once, as legends tell, Was frenzied by the fiends of hell; Orestes, too, with naked tread, Frantic paced the mountain-head; And why? a murdered mother's shade Haunted them still where'er they strayed. But ne'er could I a murderer be, The grape alone shall bleed for me; Yet can I shout, with wild delight, "I will--I will be mad to-night."

Alcides' self, in days of yore, Imbrued his hands in youthful gore, And brandished, with a maniac joy, The quiver of the expiring boy: And Ajax, with tremendous shield, Infuriate scoured the guiltless field. But I, whose hands no weapon ask, No armor but this joyous flask; The trophy of whose frantic hours Is but a scattered wreath of flowers, Ev'n I can sing, with wild delight, "I will--I will be mad to-night!"

ODE X.[1]

How am I to punish thee, For the wrong thou'st done to me Silly swallow, prating thing-- Shall I clip that wheeling wing? Or, as Tereus did, of old,[2] (So the fabled tale is told,) Shall I tear that tongue away, Tongue that uttered such a lay? Ah, how thoughtless hast thou been! Long before the dawn was seen, When a dream came o'er my mind, Picturing her I worship, kind, Just when I was nearly blest, Loud thy matins broke my rest!

[1] This ode is addressed to a swallow.

[2] Modern poetry has conferred the name of Philomel upon the nightingale; but many respectable authorities among the ancients assigned this metamorphose to Progne, and made Philomel the swallow, as Anacreon does here.

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 past my way: "Sir," (he answered, and the while Answered all in Doric style,) "Take it, for a trifle take it; 'Twas not I who dared to make it; No, believe me, 'twas not I; Oh, it has 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!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine, Warm me with that torch of thine; Make me feel as I have felt, Or thy waxen frame shall melt: I must burn with warm desire, Or thou, my boy--in yonder fire.[2]

[1] It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simplicity of this ode, and the humor of the turn with which it concludes. I feel, indeed, that the translation must appear vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader.

[2] From this Longepierre conjectures, that, whatever Anacreon might say, he felt sometimes the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature.

ODE XII.

They tell how Atys, wild with love, Roams the mount and haunted grove;[1] Cvbele's name he howls around, The gloomy blast returns the sound! Oft too, by Claros' hallowed spring,[2] The votaries of the laurelled king Quaff the inspiring, magic stream, And rave in wild, prophetic dream. But frenzied dreams are not for me, Great Bacchus is my deity! Full of mirth, and full of him, While floating odors round me swim, While mantling 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!

[1] 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 Cybele's jealousy, is a point upon which authors are not agreed.

[2] This fountain was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated between Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The god had an oracle there.

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 resigned; And so repelled the tender lure, And hoped my heart would 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 summoned me to yield, Or meet him on the martial field. And what did I unthinking do? I took to arms, undaunted, too; Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear, And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, All ye 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 shot himself into my heart![1] My heart--alas the luckless day! Received the God, and died away. Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield! Thy lord at length is forced to yield. Vain, vain, is every outward care, The foe's within, and triumphs there.

[1] 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.

ODE XIV.[1]

Count me, on the summer trees, Every leaf that courts the breeze; Count me, on the foamy deep, Every wave that sinks to sleep; Then, when you have numbered these Billowy tides and leafy trees, Count me all the flames I prove, All the gentle nymphs I love. First, of pure Athenian maids Sporting in their olive shades, You may reckon just a score, Nay, I'll grant you fifteen more. In the famed Corinthian grove, Where such countless wantons rove,[2] Chains of beauties may be found, Chains, by which my heart is bound; There, indeed, are nymphs divine, Dangerous to a soul like mine. Many bloom in Lesbos' isle; Many in Ionia smile; Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast; Caria too contains a host. Sum them all--of brown and fair You may count two thousand there. What, you stare? I pray you peace! More I'll find before I cease. Have I told you all my flames, 'Mong the amorous Syrian dames? Have I numbered every one, Glowing under Egypt's sun? Or the nymphs, who blushing sweet Deck the shrine of Love in Crete; Where the God, with festal play, Holds eternal holiday? Still in clusters, still remain Gades' warm, desiring train:[3] Still there lies a myriad more On the sable India's shore; These, and many far removed, All are loving--all are loved!

[1] The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses, means nothing more, than, by a lively hyperbole, to inform 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."

[2] Corinth was very famous for the beauty and number of its courtesans. Venus was the deity principally worshipped by the people, and their constant prayer was, that the gods should increase the number of her worshippers.

[3] The music of the Gaditanian females had all the voluptuous character of their dancing, as appears from Martial.

ODE XV.[1]

Tell me, why, my sweetest dove, Thus your humid pinions move, Shedding through the air in showers Essence of the balmiest flowers? Tell me whither, whence you rove, Tell me all, my sweetest dove.

Curious stranger, I belong To the bard of Teian song; With his mandate now I fly To the nymph of azure eye;-- She, whose eye has maddened many, But the poet more than any, Venus, for a hymn of love, Warbled in her votive grove,[2] ('Twas, in sooth a gentle lay,) Gave me to the bard away. See me now his faithful minion,-- Thus with softly-gliding pinion, To his lovely girl I bear Songs of passion through the air. Oft he blandly whispers me, "Soon, my bird, I'll set you free." But in vain he'll bid me fly, I shall serve him till I die. Never could my plumes sustain Ruffling winds and chilling rain, O'er the plains, or in the dell, On the mountain's savage swell, Seeking in the desert wood Gloomy shelter, rustic food. Now I lead a life of ease, Far from rugged haunts like these. From Anacreon's hand I eat Food delicious, viands sweet; Flutter o'er his goblet's brim, Sip the foamy wine with him. Then, when I have wantoned round To his lyre's beguiling sound; Or with gently moving-wings Fanned the minstrel while he sings; On his harp I sink in slumbers, Dreaming still of dulcet numbers!

This is all--away--away-- You have made me waste the day. How I've chattered! prating crow Never yet did chatter so.

[1] The dove of Anacreon, bearing a letter from the poet to his mistress, is met by a stranger, with whom this dialogue, is imagined.

[2] "This passage is invaluable, and I do not think that anything so beautiful or so delicate has ever been said. What an idea does it give of the poetry of the man, from whom Venus herself, the mother of the Graces and the Pleasures, purchases a little hymn with one of her favorite doves!"--LONGEPIERRE.

ODE XVI.[1]

Thou, whose soft and rosy hues Mimic form and soul infuse, Best of painters, come portray The lovely maid that's far away. Far away, my soul! thou art, But I've thy beauties all by heart. Paint her jetty ringlets playing, Silky locks, like tendrils straying;[2] And, if painting hath the skill To make the spicy balm distil, Let every little lock exhale A sigh of perfume on the gale. Where her tresses' curly flow Darkles o'er the brow of snow, Let her forehead beam to light, Burnished as the ivory bright. Let her eyebrows smoothly rise In jetty arches o'er her eyes, Each, a crescent gently gliding, Just commingling, just dividing.

But, hast thou any sparkles warm, The lightning of her eyes to form? Let them effuse the azure rays, That in Minerva's glances blaze, Mixt with the liquid light that lies In Cytherea's languid eyes. O'er her nose and cheek be shed Flushing white and softened red; Mingling tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose. Then her lip, so rich in blisses, Sweet petitioner for kisses, Rosy nest, where lurks Persuasion, Mutely courting Love's invasion. Next, beneath the velvet chin, Whose dimple hides a Love within, Mould her neck with grace descending, In a heaven of beauty ending; While countless charms, above, below, Sport and flutter round its snow. Now let a floating, lucid veil, Shadow her form, but not conceal;[3] A charm may peep, a hue may beam And leave the rest to Fancy's dream. Enough--'tis she! 'tis all I seek; It glows, it lives, it soon will speak!

[1] This ode and the next may be called companion-pictures; they are highly finished, and give us an excellent idea of the taste of the ancients in beauty.

[2] The ancients have been very enthusiastic in their praises of the beauty of hair. Apuleius, in the second book of his Milesiacs, says that Venus herself, if she were bald, though surrounded by the Graces and the Loves, could not be pleasing even to her husband Vulcan.

[3] This delicate art of description, which leaves imagination to complete the picture, has been seldom adopted in the imitations of this beautiful poem. Ronsard is exceptionally minute; and Politianus, in his charming portrait of a girl, full of rich and exquisite diction, has lifted the veil rather too much. The "_questa che tu m'intendi_" should be always left to fancy.

ODE XVII.

And now with all thy pencil's truth, Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth! Let his hair, in masses bright, Fall like floating rays of light; And there the raven's die confuse With the golden sunbeam's hues. Let no wreath, with artful twine. The flowing of his locks confine; But leave them loose to every breeze, To take what shape and course they please. Beneath the forehead, fair as snow, But flushed with manhood's early glow, And guileless as the dews of dawn, Let the majestic brows be drawn, Of ebon hue, enriched by gold, Such as dark, shining snakes unfold. Mix in his eyes the power alike, With love to win, with awe to strike; Borrow from Mars his look of ire, From Venus her soft glance of fire; Blend them in such expression here, That we by turns may hope and fear!

Now from the sunny apple seek The velvet down that spreads his cheek; And there, if art so far can go, The ingenuous blush of boyhood show. While, for his mouth--but no,--in vain Would words its witching charm explain. Make it the very seat, the throne, That Eloquence would claim her own; And let the lips, though silent, wear A life-look, as if words were there.

Next thou his ivory neck must trace, Moulded with soft but manly grace; Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy, Where Paphia's arms have hung in joy. Give him the wingèd Hermes' hand, With which he waves his snaky wand; Let Bacchus the broad chest supply, And Leda's son the sinewy thigh; While, through his whole transparent frame, Thou show'st the stirrings of that flame, Which kindles, when the first love-sigh Steals from the heart, unconscious why.

But sure thy pencil, though so bright, Is envious of the eye's delight, Or its enamoured touch would show The shoulder, fair as sunless snow, Which now in veiling shadow lies, Removed from all but Fancy's eyes. Now, for his feet--but hold--forbear-- I see the sun-god's portrait there:[1] Why paint Bathyllus? when in truth, There, in that god, thou'st sketched the youth. Enough--let this bright form be mine, And send the boy to Samos' shrine; Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be, Bathyllus then, the deity!

[1] The abrupt turn here is spirited, but requires some explanation. While the artist is pursuing the portrait of Bathyllus, Anacreon, we must suppose, turns around and sees a picture of Apollo, which was intended for an altar at Samos. He then instantly tells the painter to cease his work; that this picture will serve for Bathyllus; and that, when he goes to Samos, he may make an Apollo of the portrait of the boy which he had begun.

ODE XVIII.

Now the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly. Bring me wine in brimming urns Cool my lip, it burns, it burns! Sunned by the meridian fire, Panting, languid I expire, Give me all those humid flowers, Drop them o'er my brow in showers. Scarce a breathing chaplet now Lives upon my feverish brow; Every dewy rose I wear Sheds its tears, and withers there.[1] But to you, my burning heart, What can now relief impart? Can brimming bowl, or floweret's dew, Cool the flame that scorches you?

[1] In the poem of Mr. Sheridan's, "Uncouth is this moss-covered grotto of stone," there is an idea very singularly coincident with this of Angerianus:--

And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve
Some lingering drops of the night-fallen dew:
Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they'll serve
As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.

ODE XIX.[1]

Here recline you, gentle maid, Sweet is this embowering shade; Sweet the young, the modest trees, Ruffled by the kissing breeze; Sweet the little founts that weep, Lulling soft the mind to sleep; Hark! they whisper as they roll, Calm persuasion to the soul; Tell me, tell me, is not this All a stilly scene of bliss? "Who, my girl, would pass it by? Surely neither you nor I."

[1] The description of this bower is so natural and animated, that we almost feel a degree of coolness and freshness while we peruse it.

ODE XX.[1]

One day the Muses twined the hands Of infant Love with flowery bands; And to celestial Beauty gave The captive infant for her slave. His mother comes, with many a toy, To ransom her beloved boy;[2] His mother sues, but all in vain,-- He ne'er will leave his chains again. Even should they take his chains away, The little captive still would stay. "If this," he cries, "a bondage be, Oh, who could wish for liberty?"

[1] The poet appears, in this graceful allegory, to describe the softening influence which poetry holds over the mind, in making it peculiarly susceptible to the impressions of beauty.

[2] In the first idyl of Moschus, Venus there proclaims the reward for her fugitive child:--

On him, who the haunts of my Cupid can show,
A kiss of the tenderest stamp I'll bestow;
But he, who can bring back the urchin in chains,
Shall receive even something more sweet for his pains.

ODE XXI.[1]

Observe when mother earth is dry, She drinks the droppings of the sky; And then the dewy cordial gives To every thirsty plant that lives. The vapors, which at evening weep, Are beverage to the swelling deep; And when the rosy sun appears, He drinks the ocean's misty tears. The moon too quaffs her paly stream Of lustre, from the solar beam. Then, hence with all your sober thinking! Since Nature's holy law is drinking; I'll make the laws of nature mine, And pledge the universe in wine.

[1] Those critics who have endeavored to throw the chains of precision over the spirit of this beautiful trifle, require too much from Anacreontic philosophy. Among others, Gail very sapiently thinks that the poet uses the epithet [Greek: melainae], because black earth absorbs moisture more quickly than any other; and accordingly he indulges us with an experimental disquisition on the subject.--See Gail's Notes.

ODE XXII.

The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm, Was once a weeping matron's form;[1] And Progne, hapless, frantic maid, Is now a swallow in the shade. Oh! that a mirror's form were mine, That I might catch that smile divine; And like my own fond fancy be, Reflecting thee, and only thee; Or could I be the robe which holds That graceful form within its folds; Or, turned into a fountain, lave Thy beauties in my circling wave. Would I were perfume for thy hair, To breathe my soul in fragrance there; Or, better still, the zone, that lies Close to thy breast, and feels its sighs![2] Or even 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-- Even to be trod by them were sweet!

[1] The compliment of this ode is exquisitely delicate, and so singular for the period in which Anacreon lived, when the scale of love had not yet been graduated Into all its little progressive refinements, that if we were inclined to question the authenticity of the poem, we should find a much more plausible argument in the features of modern gallantry which it bears, than in any of those fastidious conjectures upon which some commentators have presumed so far.

[2] 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.

ODE XXIII.