The works of Anacreon, Sappho, Bion, Moschus and Musæus

With Roses crown'd, on Flowers supinely laid,
Anacreon blithe the sprightly Lyre essay'd,
In light fantastic Measures beat the Ground,
Or dealt the mirth-inspiring Juice around:
No Care, no Thought, the tuneful Teian knew,
But mark'd with Bliss each Moment as it slew.
Progress of Poetry. By a Lady.

ODE I. ON HIS LYRE.

“Wake, O Lyre, thy silent Strings,
“Celebrate the Brother-Kings,
“Sons of Atreus, fam'd afar,
“Cadmus, and the Theban War.”—

Rapt I strike the vocal Shell—
Hark—the trembling Chords rebel;
All averse to Arms they prove,
Warbling only Strains of Love.

Late I strung anew my Lyre—
“Heav'nly Muse my Breast inspire,
“While the swelling Notes resound
“Hercules, for Toils renown'd.”
Still the Chords rebellious prove,
Answ'ring only Strains of Love!

Farewel Heroes, farewel Kings!
Love alone shall tune my Strings.

ODE III. CUPID BENIGHTED.

The sable Night had spread around
This nether World a Gloom profound;
No silver Moon nor Stars appear,
And strong Boötes urg'd the Bear:

The Race of Man, with Toils opprest
Enjoy'd the balmy Sweets of Rest;
When from the heav'nly Court of Jove
Descended swift the God of Love,
(Ah me! I tremble to relate)
And loudly thunder'd at my Gate.
“Who's there? I cry'd, Who breaks my Door
“At this unseasonable Hour?”
The God, with well dissembled Sighs,
And Moan insidious, thus replies:
“Pray ope the Door, dear Sir—'tis I,
“A harmless, miserable Boy;
“Benumm'd with Cold and Rain I stray
“A long, uncomfortable Way—

“The Winds with blust'ring Horror roar—
“'Tis dismal dark—Pray ope the Door.”

Quite unsuspicious of a Foe
I listen'd to the Tale of Woe,
Compassion touch'd my Breast, and strait
I struck a Light, unbarr'd the Gate;
When, lo! a winged Boy I spy'd
With Bow and Quiver at his Side:
I wonder'd at his strange Attire;
Then friendly plac'd him near the Fire.
My Heart was bounteous and benign,
I warm'd his little Hands in mine,
Chear'd him with kind assiduous Care,
And wrung the Water from his Hair.
Soon as the fraudful Youth was warm,
“Let's try, says he, if any Harm
“Has chanc'd my Bow this stormy Night;
“I fear the Wet has spoil'd it quite:”
With that he bent the fatal Yew,
And to the Head an Arrow drew;

Loud twang'd the sounding String, the Dart
Pierc'd thro' my Liver and my Heart.
Then laugh'd amain the wanton Boy,
And, “Friend, he cry'd, I wish thee Joy;
“Undamag'd is my Bow, I see,
“But what a Wretch I've made of thee!”

ODE IV. ON HIMSELF.

Reclin'd at ease on this soft Bed
With fragrant Leaves of Myrtle spread
And flow'ry Lote, I'll now resign
My Cares, and quaff the rosy Wine.
In decent Robe, behind him bound,
Cupid shall serve the Goblet round:
For fast away our Moments steal,
Like the swift Chariot's rolling Wheel:

The rapid Course is quickly done,
And soon the Race of Life is run;
Then, then, alas! we droop, we die,
And sunk in Dissolution lie;
Our Frame no Symmetry retains;
Nought but a little Dust remains.
Why on the Tomb are Odours shed?
Why pour'd Libations to the dead?

To me, far better, while I live,
Rich Wines and balmy Fragrance give;
Now, now, the rosy Wreath prepare,
And hither call the lovely Fair.

Now, while I draw my vital Breath,
Ere yet I lead the Dance of Death,
For Joy my Sorrows I'll resign,
And drown my Cares in rosy Wine.

ODE V. ON THE ROSE.

To make the Beverage divine
Mingle sweet Roses with the Wine;
Delicious will the Liquor prove,
For Roses are the Flowers of Love:

And while with Wreaths of Roses crown'd,
Let Laughter and the Cup go round.

Hail, lovely Rose! to thee I sing,
Thou sweetest Daughter of the Spring:
All Mortals prize thy Beauties bright;
In thee the Pow'rs above delight.
Gay Cupid, with the Graces bland,
When lightly bounding Hand in Hand,
With nimble Feet he beats the Ground,
Shows his bright Locks with Roses crown'd.
Here then the flow'ry Garland bring;
With Numbers sweet I'll wake the String,
And crown'd with Roses, heav'nly Flow'rs!
Admitted, Bacchus, to thy Bow'rs,

With snowy-bosom'd Sappho gay
I'll dance the feather'd Hours away.

ODE VI. THE PARTY OF PLEASURE.

While Roses round our Temples twine,
We'll gayly quaff the sparkling Wine:
And, lo! the love-alluring Fair
Her Thyrsus brandishes in Air,

With clust'ring Ivy wreath'd around
Whose Branches yield a rustling Sound;
With graceful Ease her Steps she suits
To Notes of soft Ionian Lutes.
A Youth, whose Hair luxuriant flows
In Curls, with Breath ambrosial blows
The well-pair'd Pipes, and, sweetly clear,
Pours melting Music on the Ear.
Here Cupid too with golden Hair,
And Bacchus, ever young and fair,

With Cytherea, who inspires
Delightful Thoughts and warm Desires,
Gay-smiling join the festive Train,
And make an old Man young again.

ODE VII. THE POWER OF LOVE.

Love, waving awful in his Hand
His Hyacinth-encircled Wand,
Forc'd me, averse, with him to run;
In vain I strove the Task to shun.
Swift o'er the Plain our Course we ply'd,
Thro' foaming Floods, o'er-Forests wide,

O'er Hills where Rocks impending hung,
Till me, alas! a Serpent stung:
Sore heav'd my Heart with dire Dismay,
My Spirits sunk—I dy'd away—
Pleas'd Cupid caught my trembling Hand,
My Face with his soft Pinions fann'd,
And cry'd, ‘Since now my Pow'r you prove,
‘Dare you still boast, you will not love?’

ODE VIII. THE DREAM.

As on a purple Bed supine,
Rapt in the pleasing Joys of Wine,
I lull'd my weary Limbs to Rest,
Methought, with Nymphs supremely blest,
A beauteous Band, I urg'd the Chace,
Contending in the rapid Race;
While fairest Youths, with Envy stung,
Fair as Lyæus ever young,
With jealous Leer, and bitter Jest,
Their keen Malevolence exprest.
Intent on Love, I strive to greet
The gamesome girls with Kisses sweet,

And, as on Pleasure's Brink I seem,
Wake, and, behold! 'tis all a Dream.
Vex'd to be thus alone in Bed,
My visionary Charmers fled,
To dream once more I close my Eyes;
Again, ye soft Illusions, rise!

ODE IX. THE DOVE.

“Tell me, dear, delightful Dove,
“Emblematic Bird of Love,
“On your wavering Wings descending,
“Whence you come, and whither tending?

“Tell me whence your snowy Plumes
“Breathe such Fragrance of Perfumes?
“And what Master you obey,
“Gentle Bird of Venus, say!”

“Blithe Anacreon, the wise,
“(Thus the feather'd Page replies)
“Sends me o'er the Meads and Groves
“To Bathyllus whom he loves,

“To Bathyllus, beauteous Boy,
“Men's Delight, and Maidens Joy.
“For a Sonnet terse and trim,
“Which the Poets call a Hymn,
“Venus, in her sweet Regard,
“Sold me to the gentle Bard:
“Happy in his easy Sway,
“All his Mandates I obey;
“Often through the Fields of Air
“Song or Billet-doux I bear.
“If you serve me well, says he,
“I will shortly make you free.
“He may free me, if he will,
“Yet I'll stay and serve him still:

“For what Comfort can I know
“On the Mountain's barren Brow?
“Or in Deserts left alone,
“There to murmur and to moan?
“Or in melancholy Wood,
“Pecking Berries, nauseous Food!
“Now I eat delicious Bread,
“By my liberal Master fed;
“Now I drink, of his own Bowl,
“Rosy Wine that chears my Soul;

“Sometimes dance, and sometimes play,
“Ever easy, ever gay;
“Or my fragrant Pinions spread,
“Hovering o'er my Master's Head:
“When my Limbs begin to tire,
“Then I perch upon his Lyre;
“Soothing Sounds my Eye-lids close,
“Sweetly lulling my Repose.

“Now I've told you all I know,
“Friend, adieu—'tis Time to go;
“You my Speed so long delay,
“I have chatter'd like a Jay.

ODE X. CUPID IN WAX.

A rustic brought, of curious Mold,
A waxen Cupid to be sold:
“What Price, I cry'd, ingenuous say,
“For this small Image shall I pay?”
“Small is the Price, reply'd the Clown,
“Take it, e'en take it at your own:
“To tell you all without a Lye,
“I make no Images, not I;
“But dare not in my Mansion trust
“This Patron of unbounded Lust.”
“If so, then for this little Coin,
“Said I, the Deity is mine.

“And now, great God, my Breast inspire,
“There kindle all thy gentle Fire:
“But, if thou fail'st to favour me,
“I swear I'll make a Fire of thee.”

ODE XII. ON A SWALLOW.

Say, chattering Bird, that dar'st invade
My Slumbers with thy Serenade,
And steal'st my visionary Bliss,
How shall I punish thee for this?
Say, shall I clip thy soaring Wing;
Or, like stern Tereus, Thracian King,
To Swallows Name of dire Dismay,
Tear by the Roots thy Tongue away?

For, with thy execrable Scream,
Thou wak'st me from a golden Dream,

And from my Arms hast snatch'd away
Phyllis the fair, the young, the gay.

ODE XIII. ON ATYS.

As o'er the Mountains, o'er the Plains,
Unmanly Atys, in loud Strains
Great Cybele invoking, mourn'd,
His Love to sudden Madness turn'd.

Some to the Clarian Fountain throng
Of laurel'd Phœbus, God of Song,

And, with prophetic Draughts inspir'd,
Enraptur'd rave, with Frenzy fir'd;
I too, inspir'd with generous Wine,
While round me breathe Perfumes divine,
And with fair Chloe blest, will prove
The sweetest Madness—Wine and Love.

ODE XIV. LOVE IRRESISTIBLE.

Yes, I yield—thy sovereign Sway,
Mighty Cupid, I'll obey.
Late with soft persuasive Art
Love essay'd to win my Heart:
I, inflam'd with rebel Pride,
His Omnipotence defy'd—
With revengeful fury stung,
Strait his Bow he bent, he strung,
Snatch'd an Arrow wing'd for Flight,
And provok'd me to the Fight:
I, disdaining base Retreat,
Clad in radiant Arms compleat,

Like Achilles, boldly wield
Glittering Spear, and ample Shield;
Thus equipt, resolve to prove
The terrific Power of Love.

From his Bow the Arrows sped;
I, alas! inglorious fled—
When the Quiver at his Side
Feather'd Shafts no more supply'd,

Love, transform'd into a Dart,
Pierc'd, like Light'ning, thro' my Heart,
Of my Vitals made his Prey,
And dissolv'd my Soul away.
Now, alas! in vain I wield
Glittering Spear, and ample Shield,
Victory in vain dispute,
Love, I find, is absolute;

All Defence to Folly turns
When within the Battle burns.

ODE XVII. THE SILVER BOWL.

Mulciber , this Silver take,
And a curious Goblet make;
Let thy utmost Skill appear
Not in radiant Armour there;
Let me there no Battles see;
What are Arms or Wars to me?
Form it with a noble Sweep,
Very wide, and very deep.
Carve not there the northern Team,
Nor Orion's dreadful Beam;

Pleiads, Hyads, Bears displease;
What have I to do with these?
Why should slow Boötes roll,
Why should horrid Monsters prowl,
On the Margin of my Bowl?
Draw me, what I value more,
Vines with purple Clusters Store,
Bacchus ever young and fair,
Cupid with the golden Hair,
Gay Bathyllus too be there.
See that, beautiful and bold,
All these Figures rise in Gold:
In the Wine-press let them join
Hand in Hand to tread the Wine.

ODE XVIII. ON THE SAME.

[Contrive me, Artisan, a Bowl]

Contrive me, Artisan, a Bowl
Of Silver ample as my Soul;
And in the bright Compartments bring
The sweet Profusion of the Spring;
Let that fair Season, rich in Flowers,
Shed Roses in ambrosial Showers;
Yet simply plain be thy Design,
A festive Banqueting of Wine;
No Hieroglyphics let it have,
No foreign Mysteries engrave:
Let no blood-thirsty Heroes wield
Rough Armour in the silver Field;
But draw me Jove's delightful Boy,
Paschus the God of Wine and Joy:
Let Venus with light Step advance,
And with gay Hymen lead the Dance.

Beneath the Leaf-embellish'd Vine,
Full of young Grapes that promise Wine,
Let Love, without his Armour meet
The meek-ey'd Graces laughing sweet.
And on the polish'd Plain display
A Group of beauteous Boys at Play;
But no Apollo, God of Day,

ODE XIX. WE OUGHT TO DRINK.

The thirsty Earth sucks up the Showers
Which from his Urn Aquarius pours;
The Trees, which wave their Boughs profuse,
Imbibe the Earth's prolific Juice;
The Sea, in his prodigious Cup,
Drinks all the Rain and Rivers up;
The Sun too thirsts, and strives to drain
The Sea, the Rivers, and the Rain,

And nightly, when his Course is run,
The merry Moon drinks up the Sun.

Then give me Wine, and tell me why,
My Friends, should all Things drink but I?

ODE XXI. SUMMER.

Fill, fill, sweet Girls, the foaming Bowl,
And let me gratify my Soul:
I faint with Thirst—the Heat of Day
Has drank my very Life away.

O! lead me to yon cooling Bowers,
And give me fresher Wreaths of Flowers;
For those that now my Temples shade,
Scorch'd by my burning Forehead, fade:

But O! my Heart, what can remove,
What Wines, what Shades, this Heat of Love?
These are all vain, alas! I find;
Love is the Fever of the Mind.

ODE XXIII. THE VANITY OF RICHES.

If the treasur'd Gold could give
Man a longer Term to live,
I'd employ my utmost Care
Still to keep, and still to spare;
And, when Death approach'd, would say,
“Take thy Fee, and walk away.”

But since riches cannot save
Mortals from the gloomy Grave,
Why should I myself deceive,
Vainly sigh, and vainly grieve?
Death will surely be my Lot,
Whether I am rich, or not.

Give me freely while I live
Generous Wines, in Plenty give
Soothing Joys my Life to chear,
Beauty kind, and Friends sincere;
Happy! could I ever find
Friends sincere, and Beauty kind.

ODE XXIV. ENJOYMENT.

Since I'm born a mortal Man,
And my Being's but a Span;
'Tis a March that I must make;
'Tis a Journey I must take:
What is past I know too well;
What is future who can tell?
Teazing Care, then set me free,
What have I to do with thee?
Ere I die, for die I must,
Ere this Body turns to Dust,

Every Moment I'll employ
In sweet Revelry and Joy,
Laugh and sing, and dance and play,
With Lyæus young and gay.

ODE XXV. WINE BANISHES CARES.

When gay Bacchus chears my Breast,
All my Cares are lull'd to Rest:

Griefs that weep, and Toils that teaze,
What have I to do with these?
No Solicitudes can save
Mortals from the gloomy Grave.
Shall I thus myself deceive?
Shall I languish? Shall I grieve?
Let us quaff the generous Juice;
Bacchus gave it for our Use.

For when Wine transports the Breast,
All our Cares are lull'd to Rest.

ODE XXVI. THE TRANSPORTS OF WINE.

When gay Bacchus fills my Breast,
All my Cares are lull'd to Rest,
Rich I seem as Lydia's King,
Merry Catch or Ballad sing;

Ivy-wreaths my Temples shade,
Ivy that will never fade:
Thus I sit in Mind elate,
Laughing at the Farce of State.

Some delight in fighting Fields,
Nobler Transports Bacchus yields:
Fill the Bowl—I ever said,
'Tis better to lie drunk than dead.

ODE XXVII. THE PRAISE OF BACCHUS.

Bacchus , Jove's delightful Boy,
Generous God of Wine and Joy,
Still exhilarates my Soul
With the Raptures of the Bowl;
Then with feather'd Feet I bound,
Dancing in a festive Round;
Then I feel, in sparkling Wine,
Transports delicate, divine;

Then the sprightly Music warms,
Song delights, and Beauty charms:
Debonair, and light, and gay,
Thus I dance the Hours away.

ODE XXVIII. HIS MISTRESS's PICTURE.

[_]

From the Guardian.

Best and happiest Artisan,
Best of Painters, if you can,
With your many-colour'd Art
Paint the Mistress of my Heart.

Describe the Charms you hear from me,
(Her charms you could not paint and see)
And make the absent Nymph appear
As if her lovely Self were here.

First draw her easy-flowing Hair,
As soft and black as she is fair;

And, if your Art can rise so high,
Let breathing Odours round her fly.

Beneath the Shade of flowing Jet,
The ivory Forehead smoothly set,
With Care the sable Brows extend,
And in two Arches nicely bend;
That the fair Space, which lies between
The meeting Shade, may scarce be seen.
The Eye must be uncommon Fire,
Sparkle, languish, and desire;
The Flames, unseen, must yet be felt,
Like Pallas kill, like Venus melt.
The rosy Cheeks must seem to glow
Amidst the White of new-fall'n Snow.

Let her Lips Persuasion wear,
In Silence elegantly fair;
As if the blushing Rivals strove,
Breathing and inviting Love.

Below her Chin be sure to deck
With every Grace her polish'd Neck;
While all that's pretty, soft, and sweet,
In the swelling Bosom meet.
The rest in purple Garments veil,
Her Body, not her Shape, conceal.

Enough!—the lovely Work is done,
The breathing Paint will speak anon.

ODE XXIX. BATHYLLUS.

Now, illustrious Artisan,
Paint the well-proportion'd Man;
Once again the Tints prepare,
Paint Bathyllus young and fair.

Draw his Tresses soft and black,
Flowing graceful down his Back,
Auburn be the curl'd Extremes,
Glowing like the solar Beams;

Let them negligently fall,
Easy, free, and artless all.

Let his bright cærulean Brow
Grace his Forehead white as Snow.

Let his Eyes, that glow with Fire,
Gentlest, mildest Love inspire;
Steal from Mars the radiant Mien,
Softness from th'Idalian Queen;

This, with Hope the Heart to bless,
That, with Terror to depress.

Next, his Cheeks with Roses crown,
And the Peach's dubious Down;
And, if Art can this bestow,
Let the Blush ingenuous glow.

But Description would be faint,
Teaching you his Lips to paint:
There let fair Persuasion dwell,
Let them gently, softly swell,
Seem in sweetest Sounds to break
Willing Air, and silent speak.

Now you've finish'd high the Face,
Draw his ivory Neck with Grace;
All the Charms and Beauty add,
Such as fair Adonis had.

Let me, next, the Bosom see
And the hands of Mercury.

But I'll not presume to tell,
Artist, you who paint so well,
How the Foot should be exprest,
How to finish all the rest.

I the Price you ask will give,
For the Picture seems to live:
Gold's too little, view this Piece,
'Tis the pictur'd Pride of Greece;
This divine Apollo take,
And from this Bathyllus make.
When to Samos you repair,
Ask for young Bathyllus there,
Finest Figure Eye e'er saw,
From Bathyllus Phœbus draw.

ODE XXX. CUPID TAKEN PRISONER.

Late the Muses Cupid found
And with Wreaths of Roses bound,
Bound him fast, as soon as caught,
And to blooming Beauty brought.
Venus with large Ransom strove
To release the God of Love.
Vain is Ransom, vain is fee,
Love refuses to be free.

Happy in his rosy Chain,
Love with Beauty will remain.

ODE XXXI. THE PLEASING FRENZY.

Indulge me, Stoics, with the Bowl,
And let me gratify my Soul;
Your Precepts to the Schools confine,
For I'll be nobly mad with wine.

Alcmæon and Orestes grew
Quite mad when they their Mothers slew:
But I, no Man, no Mother kill'd,
No Blood but that of Bacchus spill'd,

Will prove the Virtues of the Vine,
And be immensely mad with Wine.

When Hercules was mad, we know,
He grasp'd the Iphitean Bow;
The Rattling of his Quiver spread
Astonishment around and Dread.
Mad Ajax, with his sevenfold Shield,
Tremendous stalk'd along the Field,
Great Hector's flaming Sword he drew,
And Hosts of Greeks in Fancy slew.

But I with no such Fury glow,
No Sword I wave, nor bend the Bow:
My Helmet is a flowery Crown;
In this bright Bowl my Cares I'll drown,
And rant in Ecstacies divine,
Heroically mad with Wine.

ODE XXXII. THE NUMBER OF HIS MISTRESSES.

When thou can'st fairly number all
The Leaves on Trees that fade and fall,
Or count the foaming Waves that roar,
Or tell the Pebbles on the Shore;

Then may'st thou reckon up the Names
Of all my Beauties, all my Flames.

At Athens, Flames that still survive,
First count me only thirty-five.
At Corinth next tell o'er the Fair,
Tell me a whole battalion there.
In Greece the fairest Nymphs abound,
And worse than banner'd Armies wound.
Count all that make their sweet Abodes
At Lesbos, or delightful Rhodes.
Then Carian and Ionian Dames,
Write me at least two thousand Flames.

What! think'st thou this too large a Sum?
Egypt and Syria are to come.

And Crete where Love his Sway maintains,
And o'er a hundred Cities reigns.
Yet still unnumber'd, still remain
The Nymphs of Persia and of Spain,
And Indians, scorch'd by Titan's Ray,
Whose Charms have burnt my Heart away.

ODE XXXIII. THE SWALLOW.

Lovely Swallow, once a Year,
Pleas'd you pay your Visit here;
When our Clime the Sun-beams gild,
Here your airy Nest you build;
And, when bright Days cease to smile,
Fly to Memphis, or the Nile:

But, alas! within my Breast
Love for ever makes his Nest;
There the little Cupids lie,
Some prepare their Wings to fly,
Some unhatch'd, some form'd in Part,
Lie close nestling at my Heart,
Chirping loud; their ceaseless Noise
All my golden Peace destroys:

Some, quite fledg'd and fully grown,
Nurse the Younglings as their own;
These, when feather'd, others feed,
And thus propagate their Breed.
Dreadful Torment I sustain,
What, alas! can ease my Pain:
The vast Flocks of Loves that dwell
In my Breast no Tongue can tell.

ODE XXXIV. TO HIS MISTRESS.

Though cold Winter o'er my Brow
Sheds a scatter'd Shower of Snow,
Waving Locks of silver Hair;
Fly me not, capricious Fair.
Though the Spring's enlivening Power
Blossoms in your Beauty's Flower,
Fly me not, nor slight my Love;
In this Chaplet, lo! are wove

Lucid Colours blending bright
Roses red, and Lillies white:
We, methinks, resemble those;
I the Lilly, you the Rose.

ODE XXXV. ON THE PICTURE OF EUROPA.

This pictur'd Bull is mighty Jove,
Who meditates some Prank of Love;
On his broad Back, with pleasing Care,
He safely bears the Tyrian Fair:

Lo! buoyant on the foaming Tide,
He throws the circling Waves aside,
Securely steering through the Sea.
No other daring Bull, but He,
Would leave his Heifers on the Plain,
To tempt the Dangers of the Main.

ODE XXXVIII. ON HIMSELF.

Yes, I'm old, I'm old, 'tis true;
What have I with Time to do?
With the Young and with the Gay,
I can drink as much as they.
Let the jovial Band advance,
Still I'm ready for the Dance:
What's my Sceptre, if you ask,
Lo? I sway a mighty Flask.

Should some mettled Blade delight
In the bloody Scenes of Fight,
Let him to this Stage ascend,
Still I'm ready to contend—
Mix the Grape's rich Blood, my Page,
We in drinking will engage.

Yes, I'm old; yet with the Gay
I can be as brisk as they;
Like Silenus' midst his Train,
I can dance along the Plain.

ODE XXXIX. ON HIMSELF.

When I drain the rosy Bowl,
Joy exhilarates my Soul;

To the Nine I raise my Song,
Ever fair and ever young.

When full Cups my Cares expel,
Sober Counsels, then farewell:
Let the Winds that murmur, sweep
All my Sorrows to the Deep.

When I drink dull Time away,
Jolly Bacchus, ever gay,
Leads me to delightful Bowers,
Full of Fragrance, full of Flowers.

When I quaff the sparkling Wine,
And my Locks with Roses twine,
Then I praise Life's rural Scene,
Sweet, sequester'd, and serene.

When I sink the Bowl profound,
Richest Fragrance flowing round,
And some lovely Nymph detain,
Venus then inspires the Strain.

When from Goblets deep and wide
I exhaust the generous Tide,
All my Soul unbends—I play
Gamesome with the Young and Gay.

When the foaming Bowl I drain,
Real Blessings are my Gain;
Blessings which my own I call:
Death is common to us all.

ODE XL. CUPID WOUNDED.

Once as Cupid, tir'd with Play,
On a Bed of Roses lay,
A rude Bee, that slept unseen,
The sweet-breathing Buds between,

Stung his Finger, cruel Chance!
With its little pointed Lance.
Strait he fills the Air with Cries,
Weeps, and sobs, and runs, and flies;
Till the God to Venus came,
Lovely, laughter-loving Dame:
Then he thus began to plain;
“Oh! undone—I die with Pain—
“Dear Mamma, a Serpent small,
“Which a Bee the Plough-men call,
“Imp'd with Wings, and arm'd with Dart,
“Oh!—has stung me to the Heart.”

Venus thus reply'd, and smil'd;
‘Dry those Tears, for shame! my Child;
‘If a Bee can wound so deep,
‘Causing Cupid thus to weep,
‘Think, O think! what cruel Pains
‘He that's stung by thee sustains.’

ODE XLI. THE BANQUET OF WINE

Now let us gayly drink, and join
To celebrate the God of Wine,
Bacchus, who taught his jovial Throng
The Dance, and patroniz'd the Song;

100

In Heart, in Soul, with Love the same,
The Favourite of the Cyprian Dame.

Revelry he nam'd his Heir;
The Graces are his Daughters fair:
Sadness in Lethe's Lake he sleeps;
Solicitude before him sleeps.

When in large Bowls fair Boys produce
The heart-exhilarating Juice,
Then all our Sorrows are resign'd,
They fly, and mingle with the Wind.
The generous Bowl then let us drain,
Dismissing Care, forgetting Pain:

101

For Life, what Pleasure can it give,
If with Anxiety we live?
And what hereafter may betide
No living Casuist can decide.

The Days of Man are fix'd by Fate,
Dark and obscure, though short the Date.

Then let me, warm with Wine, advance,
And revel in the tipsey Dance;
Or, breathing Odours, sport and play
Among the Fair, among the Gay.

102

As for those stubborn Fools that will
Be wretched, be they wretched still.
But let us gayly drink, and join
To celebrate the God of Wine.

ODE XLII. ON HIMSELF.

When Bacchus, jolly God, invites,
In sprightly Dance my Heart delights;
When with blithe Youths I drain the Bowl,
The Lyre can harmonize my Soul:
But when, indulging amorous Play,
I frolic with the Fair and Gay,
With hyacinthine Chaplet crown'd,
Then, then the sweetest Joys abound;
My honest Heart nor Envy bears,
Nor Envy's poison'd Arrows fears;
By rankling Malice never stung,
I shun the venom-venting Tongue.

103

And at the jovial Banquet hate
Contentions, Battles, and Debate:
When to the Lyre's melodious Sound
With Phyllis in the Dance I bound,
The blooming Fair, the silver Lyre,
Should only Dance and Love inspire:
Then let us pass Life's peaceful Day
In Mirth and Innocence away.

104

ODE XLIII. THE GRASHOPPER.

Thee, sweet Grashopper, we call
Happiest of Insects all,
Who from Spray to Spray canst skip,
And the Dew of Morning sip:
Little Sips inspire to sing;
Then thou'rt happy as a King.

105

All, whatever thou can'st see,
Herbs and Flowers belong to thee;
All the various Seasons yield,
All the Produce of the Field.
Thou, quite innocent of Harm,
Lov'st the Farmer, and the Farm;
Singing sweet when Summer's near,
Thou to all Mankind art dear;
Dear to all the tuneful Nine
Seated round the Throne divine;

106

Dear to Phœbus, God of Day,
He inspir'd thy sprightly Lay,
And with Voice melodious blest,
And in vivid Colours drest.
Thou from Spoil of Time art free;
Age can never injure thee.
Wisest Daughter of the Earth!
Fond of Song, and full of Mirth;
Free from Flesh, exempt from Pains,
No Blood riots in thy Veins:
To the Blest I equal thee;
Thou'rt a Demi-Deity.

107

ODE XLIV. THE DREAM.

I dream'd, that late I Pinions wore,
And swiftly seem'd through Air to soar;
Me fleeter Cupid, quick as Thought,
Pursued, and in an Instant caught,
Though at his Feet hung Weights of Lead:
What can this Vision mean, I said?
Its mystic Sense I thus explain:
I, who ere-while have worn the Chain

108

Of many a Fair-one for a Day,
Then flung the flowery Band away,
Am now involv'd, and fetter'd fast
In Links that will for ever last.

111

ODE XLVI. THE POWER OF GOLD.

Love's a Pain that works our Woe;
Not to love, is painful too:
But, alas! the greatest Pain
Waits the Love that meets Disdain.

What avails ingenuous Worth,
Sprightly Wit, or noble Birth?
All these Virtues useless prove;
Gold alone engages Love.

112

May he be compleatly curst,
Who the sleeping Mischief first
Wak'd to Life, and, vile before,
Stamp'd with Worth the sordid Ore.
Gold creates in Brethren Strife;
Gold destroys the Parent's Life;
Gold produces civil Jars,
Murders, Massacres, and Wars:
But, the worst Effect of Gold,
Love, alas! is bought and sold.

113

ODE XLVII. YOUNG OLD-AGE.

Yes, yes, I own, I love to see
Old Men facetious, blithe, and free;
I love the Youth that light can bound,
Or graceful swim th'harmonious Round:
But when Old-Age jocose, though grey,
Can dance and frolic with the Gay;
'Tis plain to all the jovial Throng,
Though hoar the Head, the Heart is young.

134

ODE LVII. THAT WE SHOULD DRINK WITH MODERATION.

Bring hither, Boy, a mighty Bowl,
And let me quench my thirsty Soul;
Fill two Parts Water, fill it high,
Add one of Wine, for I am dry:
Thus let the limpid Stream allay
The jolly God's too potent Sway.

Quick, Boy, dispatch—My Friends, no more,
Thus let us drinking rant and roar;
Such clamorous Riot better suits
Unpolished Scythia's barbarous Brutes:
Let us, while Music tunes the Soul,
Mix Temperance in the friendly Bowl.

135

ODE LVIII. THE LOVE-DRAUGHT.

As late of Flow'rets fresh and fair
I wove a Chaplet for my Hair,
Beneath a Rose, gay Summer's Pride,
The wanton God of Love I spy'd,
I seiz'd him, resolute of Soul,
And plung'd him in my flowing Bowl,
Resolv'd to have a Draught divine,
And fairly swallow'd him in Wine:
E'er since his fluttering Wings impart
Strange Titillations to my Heart.

136

ODE LIX. TO A SCORNFUL BEAUTY.

Why thus with scornful Look you fly,
Wild Thracian Filly, tell me why?
Think'st thou that I no Skill possess,
And want both Courage and Address?
Know, that whenever I think fit
To tame thee with the galling Bit,
Just where I please, with tighten'd Rein,
I'll urge thee round the dusty Plain.
Now on the flowery Turf you feed,
Or lightly bound along the Mead,

137

So wild, so wanton, and untry'd,
You want some Youth to mount and ride.

ODE LX. EPITHALAMIUM ON THE MARRIAGE OF STRATOCLES AND MYRILLA.

Venus , fair Queen of Gods above,
Cupid, thou mighty Power of Love,
And Hymen bland, by Heaven design'd
The fruitful Source of Human-kind:

138

To you, as to the Lyre I sing,
Flows Honour from the sounding String;
Propitious to the Numbers prove,
O Venus, Hymen, God of Love.
View, gentle Youth, with Rapture view
This blooming Bride, ordain'd for you;
Rise quick, and feast on all her Charms,
Lest, like a Bird, she fly your Arms.
O happy Youth! by Venus blest,
But happier on Myrilla's Breast:
‘See how the Fair-one, sweetly coy,
‘All soft Confusion, meets the Joy,
‘Blooming as Health, fresh as May-flowers,
‘And bright as radiant Noon-tide Hours.’

Of all the Flowers upon the Plains,
The Rose unmatch'd in Beauty reigns;

139

Myrilla thus in Charms excells,
She shines the Rose among the Belles.
O may, blest Youth, the God of Day
The pleasing Toils of Love survey;
And may a beauteous blooming Boy
Crown your soft Vows with lasting Joy!

ODE LXI. ON GOLD.

When Gold, that Fugitive unkind,
With Pinions swifter than the Wind,
Flies from my willing Arms away,
(For Gold with me will never stay)
With careless Eyes his Flight I view,
Who would perfidious Foes pursue?

140

When from the glittering Mischief free,
What Mortal can compare with me?
All my Inquietudes of Mind
I give to murmur with the Wind:
Love sweetly tunes my melting Lyre
To tender Notes of soft Desire.

But when the Vagrant finds I burn
With Rage, and slight him in his Turn,
He comes, my Quiet to destroy,
With the mad Family of Joy:
Adieu to Love, and soft Desire!
He steals me from my soothing Lyre.

O faithless Gold! Thou dear Deceit!
Say, wilt thou still my Fancy cheat?

141

This Lute far sweeter Transport brings,
More pleasing these love-warbled Strings:
For thou with Envy and with Wiles
Me of my dearest Love beguiles,
Dashing the Cup of sweet Desire,
And robb'st me of my golden Lyre.
Then, for with me thou wilt not stay,
To faithless Phrygians speed'st away,
Proud and assiduous to please
Those Sons of Perfidy and Ease.

Me from the Muse thou would'st detain,
But all thy tempting Arts are vain;
Ne'er shall my Voice forget to sing,
Nor this right Hand to touch the String:
Away to other Climes! Farewell!—
Leave me to tune the vocal Shell.

142

ODE LXII. ON THE SPRING.

What bright Joy can this exceed,
This of roving o'er the Mead?
Where the Hand of Flora pours,
Sweetest, voluntary Flow'rs:
Where the Zephyr's balmy Gale
Wantons in the lovely Vale.
O! how pleasing to recline
Underneath the spreading Vine,
In the close Concealment laid
With a love-inspiring Maid!
Fair, and sweet, and young, and gay,
Chatting all the live-long day.

143

ODE LXIII. TO CUPID.

Mighty God of Flames and Darts,
Great Controuler of all Hearts;
With thee Venus, lovely Fair,
Venus with the golden Hair,
And the bright-ey'd Dryads play,
Nymphs that on the Mountains stray:
Come, propitious to my Vow,
Leave the Mountain's rugged Brow;
Quick descend into the Plain,
Where the Object of my Pain,
Sweet Eurypyle imparts
Anxious Hopes to youthful Hearts;
Melt to Love the yielding Fair,
Teach her not to give Despair;
Thou my Passion must approve,
Melt the yielding Fair to Love.

144

ODE LXIV. TO CUPID.

Idalian God, with golden Hair,
O Cupid, ever young and fair,
Fly to my Aid, and safely shroud
Me in a purple-beaming Cloud,
And on thy painted Wings convey
A faithful Lover on his Way.
Thy Blandishments disturb my Rest,
And kindle Tumults in my Breast;

145

The pleasing poison was convey'd
Late from the lovely Lesbian Maid;
Her sun-bright Eye discharg'd a Dart,
That rankling preys upon my Heart:
In sparkling Wit beyond Compare,
She slights, alas! my silver Hair,
Regardless of my heart-felt Pain,
And fondly loves some happier Swain.

146

ODE LXV. ON HIMSELF.

I lately thought, delightful Theme!
Anacreon saw me in a Dream,
The Teian Sage, the honey'd Bard,
Who call'd me with a sweet Regard;
I, pleas'd to meet him, ran in haste,
And with a friendly Kiss embrac'd.

'Tis true, he seem'd a little old,
But gay and comely to behold;
Still bow'd to Cytherea's Shrine.
His Lip was redolent of Wine:

147

He reel'd as if he scarce could stand,
But Cupid led him by the Hand.

The Poet, with a gentle Look,
A Chaplet from his Temples took,
That did of sweet Anacreon breathe,
And smiling gave to me the Wreath.
I from his Brow the flow'ry Crown
Receiv'd, and plac'd it on my own:
Thence all my Woes unnumber'd flow,
E'er since with raging Love I glow.

150

ODE LXVII. ON LOVE.

To Love I wake the silver String,
And of his soft Dominion sing:
A Wreath of Flowers adorns his Brow,
The sweetest, fairest Flowers that Blow:
All Mortals own his mighty Sway,
And him the Gods above obey.

151

ODE LXVIII. THE SUPPLICATION.

Queen of the Woodland Chace, whose Darts
Unerring pierce the Mountain-harts,
Diana chaste, Jove's Daughter fair,
Suppliant to thee I breathe my Prayer.
Descend, propitious to my Vow,
To where the Streams of Lethe flow:
In Pity aid a hapless Race,
Bright Goddess of the Woodland Chace;
With holy Awe they own thy Sway,
And meek in Reverence obey.

152

ODE LXIX. ARTEMON.

A Fragment.

Now Artemon, a favourite Name,
Inspires Eurypyle with Flame:
An Upstart of ignoble Blood,
Who plodded late in Shoes of Wood;
And round his Waist, instead of Vest,
Wore a Cow's stinking Hide undrest,
Which might, on fit Occasion, yield.
Rank Covering for a rotten Shield.

153

This Wretch, with other Wretches vile,
Liv'd hard by Drudgery and Toil;
Oft sentenc'd cruel Pains to feel
At Whipping-post, or Racking-wheel:
But now, conspicuous from afar,
He rides triumphant in his Car;
With golden Pendants in his Ears,
Aloft the silken Reins he bears,
Proud, and effeminately gay:
His Slaves an Ivory Skreen display,
To guard him from the Solar Ray.

ODE LXX. TO HIS BOY.

Boy, while here I sit supine,
Bring me Water, bring me Wine;
Bring me, to adorn my Brow,
Wreaths of Flowers that sweetly blow:
Love invites—O! let me prove
The Joys of Wine, the Sweets of Love.

155

THE EPIGRAMS OF ANACREON.

157

EPIGRAM I. ON TIMOCRITUS.

The Tomb of great Timocritus behold!
Mars spares the base, but slays the brave and and bold.

158

EPIGRAM II. ON AGATHON.

For Agathon, in fighting Fields renown'd
Abdera mourns his funeral Pile around;
For him she mingles Tears with bright Applause,
Who nobly suffer'd in his Country's Cause:
No Youth so brave, unknowing how to yield,
E'er perish'd in the Thunder of the Field.

159

EPIGRAM III. ON THE SON OF CLEËNOR.

Thee, Cleënorides, the bold, the brave,
Stern Neptune sunk beneath the whelming Wave:
Thy Country's Love so nobly fill'd thy Mind,
Thou dar'dst to trust, too credulous, the Wind:
The fair, though faithless, Season urg'd thy Doom,
And wrapp'd thy Beauties in a watery Tomb.

EPIGRAM IV. ON A PICTURE REPRESENTING THREE BACCHÆ.

First, Heliconias with a Thyrsus past,
Xanthippe next, and Glauca is the last;
Lo! dancing down the Mountains they repair,
And grateful Gifts to jolly Bacchus bear;

160

Wreaths of the rustling Ivy for his Head,
With Grapes delicious, and a Kid well fed.

EPIGRAM V. ON MYRON's COW.

Feed, gentle Swain, thy Cattle far away,
Lest they too near the Cow of Myron stray,
And thou, if chance fallacious Judgment err'd,
Drive home the breathing Statue with the Herd.

161

EPIGRAM VI. ON THE SAME.

[This Heifer is not cast, but rolling Years]

This Heifer is not cast, but rolling Years
Harden'd the Life to what it now appears:
Myron unjustly would the Honour claim,
But Nature has prevented him in Fame.

162

EPIGRAM VII. ON COMPANY.

I ne'er can think his Conversation good,
Who o'er the Bottle talks of Wars and Blood;
But his whose Wit the pleasing Talk refines,
And lovely Venus with the Graces joins.

EPIGRAM VIII. A DEDICATION TO JUPITER, IN THE NAME OF PHIDOLA.

Phidola , as a Monument of Speed,
This Mare, at Corinth bred, to Jove decreed.

163

EPIGRAM IX. TO APOLLO, IN THE NAME OF NAUCRATES.

God of the silver Bow, and golden Hair,
Hear Naucrates's Vows, and grant his Prayer!

EPIGRAM X. ANOTHER DEDICATION.

Lycæus' Son, Praxagoras, bestow'd
This marble Statue to his guardian God:
View well the whole—what Artist can surpass
The finish'd Work of Anaxagoras?

164

EPIGRAM XI. ANOTHER.

[Minerva's Grove contains the favour'd Shield]

Minerva's Grove contains the favour'd Shield,
That guarded Python in the bloody Field.

EPIGRAM XII. ANOTHER, BY LEOCRATES.

[When Hermes' Bust, Leocrates, you rais'd]

When Hermes' Bust, Leocrates, you rais'd,
The Graces bland the beauteous Image prais'd;
The joyful Academe extoll'd your Name;
The speaking Bust shall eternize your Fame.

165

EPIGRAM XIII. ON THE SON OF ARISTOCLES.

To Aristoclides, the best of Friends,
This honorary Verse the Muse commends:
Bold and adventurous in the martial Strife,
He sav'd his Country, but he lost his Life.

166

EPIGRAM XIV.

[Praxidice this flowery Mantle made]

Praxidice this flowery Mantle made,
Which fair Dyseris first design'd;
Mark how the lovely Damsels have display'd
A pleasing Unity of Mind.

EPIGRAM XV. UNDER A STATUE.

Calliteles first fix'd me on this Base
Fair rising to the View:
His Sons gave Ornament and Grace;
To them your Thanks are due.

167

EPIGRAM XVI. ANOTHER.

[This Trophy Areiphilus's Son]

This Trophy Areiphilus's Son
To Bacchus consecrates, for Battles won.

EPIGRAM XVII. ANOTHER.

[Thessalia's Monarch, Echecratides]

Thessalia's Monarch, Echecratides,
Has fix'd me on this Base,
Bacchus, the jolly God of Wine, to please,
And give the City Grace.

EPIGRAM XVIII.

[To Mercury your Oraisons address]

To Mercury your Oraisons address,
That Timonactes meet with wish'd Success,

168

Who fix'd these Porticoes, my sweet Abode,
And plac'd me sacred to the Herald-God.
All who the bright-eyed Sciences revere,
Strangers and Citizens, are welcome here.

EPIGRAM XIX.

[Great Sophocles, for Tragic Story prais'd]

Great Sophocles, for Tragic Story prais'd,
These Altars to the Gods immortal rais'd.

EPIGRAM XX.

[O Mercury! for Honours paid to thee]

O Mercury! for Honours paid to thee
May Tlæas live in calm Security;
Years of serenest Pleasure may he gain,
And o'er th'Athenian Race a long and happy Reign!

THE WORKS OF SAPPHO.

Translated from the Greek.

Mark, Muse! the conscious Shade and vocal Grove,
Where Sappho tun'd her melting Voice to Love,
While Echo each harmonious Strain return'd,
And with the soft complaining Lesbian mourn'd.
Progress of Poetry.

181

THE ODES OF SAPPHO.

ODE I. AN HYMN TO VENUS.

I

Venus , bright Goddess of the Skies,
To whom unnumber'd Temples rise,
Jove's Daughter fair, whose wily Arts
Delude fond Lovers of their Hearts;
O! listen gracious to my Prayer,
And free my Mind from Anxious Care.

182

II

If e'er you heard my ardent Vow,
Propitious Goddess, hear me now!
And oft my ardent Vow you've heard,
By Cupid's friendly Aid preferr'd,
Oft left the golden Courts of Jove,
To listen to my Tales of Love.

III

The radiant Car your Sparrows drew;
You gave the Word, and swift they flew,
Through liquid Air they wing'd their Way,
I saw their quivering Pinions play;
To my plain Roof they bore their Queen,
Of Aspect mild, and Look serene.

183

IV

Soon as you came, by your Command,
Back flew the wanton feather'd Band,
Then, with a sweet enchanting Look,
Divinely smiling, thus you spoke:
‘Why didst thou call me to thy Cell?
‘Tell me, my gentle Sappho, tell.

V

‘What healing Medicine shall I find
‘To cure thy love-distemper'd Mind?
‘Say, shall I lend thee all my Charms,
‘To win young Phaon to thy Arms?
‘Or does some other Swain subdue
‘Thy Heart? my Sappho, tell me who?

184

VI

‘Though now, averse, thy Charms he slight,
‘He soon shall view thee with Delight;
‘Though now he scorns thy Gifts to take,
‘He soon to thee shall Offerings make;
‘Though now thy Beauties fail to move,
‘He soon shall melt with equal Love.’

VII

Once more, O Venus, hear my Prayer,
And ease my Mind of anxious Care;
Again vouchsafe to be my Guest,
And calm this Tempest in my Breast!
To thee, bright Queen, my Vows aspire;
O grant me all my Heart's Desire!

185

ODE II.

[More happy than the Gods is he]

Whatever might have been the Occasion of this Ode, the English Reader will enter into the Beauties of it, if he supposes it to have been written in the Person of a Lover sitting by his Mistress. Addison, Spectator, No. 229.

I

More happy than the Gods is he
Who, soft-reclining, sits by thee;
His Ears thy pleasing Talk beguiles,
His Eyes thy sweetly-dimpled Smiles.

186

II

This, this, alas! alarm'd my Breast,
And robb'd me of my golden Rest:
While gazing on thy Charms I hung,
My Voice died faltering on my Tongue.

III

With subtle Flames my Bosom glows,
Quick through each Vein the Poison flows:
Dark, dimming Mists my Eyes surround;
My Ears with hollow Murmurs sound.

187

IV

My Limbs with dewy Chillness freeze,
On my whole Frame pale Tremblings seize,
And losing Colour, Sense and Breath,
I seem quite languishing in Death.

188

FRAGMENTS OF SAPPHO.

FRAGMENT I.

[The Pleiads now no more are seen]

The Pleiads now no more are seen,
Nor shines the silver Moon serene,
In dark and dismal Clouds o'ercast;
The love appointed Hour is past:
Midnight usurps her sable Throne,
And yet, alas! I lie alone.

189

FRAGMENT II.

[Whene'er the Fates resume thy Breath]

[_]

This seems to have been addressed to an arrogant unlettered Lady, vain of her Beauty and Riches.

I

Whene'er the Fates resume thy Breath,
No bright Reversion shalt thou gain,
Unnotic'd thou shalt sink in Death,
Nor ev'n thy Memory remain:
For thy rude Hand ne'er pluck'd the lovely Rose,
Which on the Mountain of Pieria blows.

190

II

To Pluto's Mansions shalt thou go,
The stern inexorable King,
Among th'ignoble Shades below
A vain, ignoble Thing;
While honour'd Sappho's Muse-embellish'd Name
Shall flourish in Eternity of Fame.

FRAGMENT III. TO VENUS.

Venus , Queen of Smiles and Love,
Quit, O! quit the Skies above;
To my lowly Roof descend,
At the mirthful Feast attend;

191

Hand the golden Goblet round,
With delicious Nectar crown'd:
None but joyous Friends you'll see,
Friends of Venus, and of me.

FRAGMENT IV.

[Cease, gentle Mother, cease your sharp Reproof]

Cease, gentle Mother, cease your sharp Reproof,
My Hands no more can ply the curious Woof,
While on my Mind the Flames of Cupid prey,
And lovely Phaon steals my Soul away.

192

FRAGMENT V. ON THE ROSE.

Would Jove appoint some Flower to reign
In matchless Beauty on the Plain,
The Rose (Mankind will all agree)
The Rose the Queen of Flowers should be;
The Pride of Plants, the Grace of Bowers,
The Blush of Meads, the Eye of Flowers:
Its Beauties charm the Gods above;
Its Fragrance is the Breath of Love;
Its Foliage wantons in the Air
Luxuriant, like the flowing Hair;
It shines in blooming Splendor gay,
While Zephyrs on its Bosom play.

193

[Ye Muses, ever fair and young]

[_]

The following is Part of an Ode which Sappho is supposed to have written to Anacreon.

Ye Muses, ever fair and young,
High-seated on the golden Throne,
Anacreon sent to me a Song
In sweetest Numbers, not his own;
For, by your sacred Raptures fir'd,
The Poet warbled what the Muse inspir'd.

TWO EPIGRAMS OF SAPPHO.

EPIGRAM I.

[Meniscus, mourning for his hapless Son]

Meniscus , mourning for his hapless Son,
The toil-experienc'd Fisher, Pelagon,

194

Has plac'd upon his Tomb a Net and Oar,
The Badges of a painful Life and poor.

195

EPIGRAM II.

[The much-lov'd Timas lodges in this Tomb]

The much-lov'd Timas lodges in this Tomb,
By Death insatiate ravish'd in her Bloom;
Ere yet a Bride, the beauteous Maid was led
To dreary Coasts, and Pluto's mournful Bed.

196

Her lov'd Companions pay the Rites of Woe,
All, all, alas! the living can bestow;
From their fair Heads the graceful Curls they shear,
Place on her Tomb, and drop the tender Tear.

204

[[THE WORKS OF BION.]]

205

THE IDYLLIUMS OF BION.

Translated from the Greek.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay—
Alas! the Muses will no longer stay,
No longer on these lovely Coasts abide;
With him they warbled, and with him they died:
With Bion perish'd all the Grace of Song,
And all the Kisses of the fair and young:
The little Loves, lamenting at his Doom,
Beat their fair Breasts, and weep around his Tomb.
Moschus on the Death of Bion.

207

IDYLLIUM I. ON THE DEATH OF ADONIS.

The Death of fair Adonis I deplore;
The lovely Youth Adonis is no more:
The cruel Fates have cut his vital Thread,
And all the Loves lament Adonis dead.
Ah Venus! never more in Purple rest,
For mournful Sable change thy flow'ry vest;

208

Thy beauteous Bosom beat, thy Loss deplore
Aloud with Sighs, Adonis is no more!
For the lov'd Youth these copious Tears I shed,
And all the Cupids mourn Adonis dead.
Methinks I see him on the Mountain lie,
The Boar's keen Tusk has pierc'd his tender Thigh;
Weltering he lies, expiring on the Ground,
And near him Venus all in Sorrow drown'd;
I see the crimson Flood fast trickling slow
Down his white Skin that vyes with winter Snow;
I see the Lustre of his Eyes decay,
And on his Lips the Roses fade away:
Yet who can Venus from those Lips divide,
Though their sweet Kisses with Adonis died?
To Venus sweet, ev'n now his Breath is fled,
Yet all her Kisses cannot warm the dead.

209

The Fate of fair Adonis I deplore;
The Loves lament, Adonis is no more!
A deep wide Wound is in his Thigh imprest,
But Venus bears a deeper in her Breast.
His Beagles round a mournful Howling keep;
And all the Dryads of the Mountains weep:
But, Venus, quite abandon'd to Despair,
Her Locks dishevell'd, and her Feet all bare,
Flies through the Thorny Brake, the Bryary Wood,
And stains the Thickets with her sacred Blood:
With piercing Cries Adonis she bewails,
Her darling Youth, along the winding Vales;
While the Blood, starting from his wounded Thigh,
Streams on his Breast, and leaves a crimson Dye.
Ah me! what Tears fair Cytherea shed,
And how the Loves deplor'd Adonis dead!
The Queen of Love, no longer now a Bride,
Has lost her Beauty since Adonis died;
Though bright the Radiance of her Charms before,
Her Lover and her Beauty are no more!

210

The Mountains mourn, the waving Woods bewail,
And Rivers roll lamenting through the Vale;
The silver Springs descend in Streams of Woe
Down the high Hills, and murmur as they flow:
And every Flower in drooping Grief appears
Depress'd and languishingly drown'd in Tears:

211

While Venus o'er the Hills and Valleys flies,
And, “Ah! Adonis is no more.” she cries.
Along the Hills, and Vales, and vocal Shore,
Echo repeats, “Adonis is no more.”
Who could unmov'd these piteous Wailings hear,
Or view the love-lorn Queen without a Tear?
Soon as she saw him wounded on the Plain,
His Thigh discolour'd with the crimson Stain,
Sighing she said, and clasp'd him as he lay,
“O stay, dear hapless Youth! for Venus stay!

212

“Our Breasts once more let close Embraces join,
“And let me press my glowing Lips to thine.
“Raise, lov'd Adonis, raise thy drooping Head,
“And kiss me ere thy parting Breath be fled,
“The last fond Token of Affection give,
“O! kiss thy Venus, while the Kisses live;
“Till in my Breast I draw thy lingering Breath,
“And with my Lips imbibe thy Love in Death:
“This farewell Kiss, which sorrowing thus I take,
“I'll keep for ever for Adonis' sake.
“Thee to the Shades the Fates untimely bring
“Before the drear, inexorable King;

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“Yet still I live unhappy and forlorn;
“How hard my Lot to be a Goddess born!
“Take, cruel Proserpine, my lovely Boy,
“Since all that's form'd for Beauty, or for Joy,
“Descends to thee, while I indulge my Grief,
“By fruitless Tears soliciting Relief.
“Thou dy'st, Adonis, and thy Fate I weep,
“Thy Love now leaves me, like a Dream in Sleep,
“Leaves me bereav'd, no more a blooming Bride,
“With unavailing Cupids at my Side.

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“With thee my Zone, which coldest Hearts could warm,
“Lost every Grace, and all its Power to charm.
“Why didst thou urge the Chace, and rashly dare
“T'encounter Beasts, thyself so wond'rous fair!”
Thus Venus mourn'd, and Tears incessant shed,
And all the Loves bewail'd Adonis dead;
Sighing they cry'd, “Ah! wretched Queen, deplore
“Thy Joys all fled, Adonis is no more.”
As many Drops of Blood, as from the Wound
Of fair Adonis trickled on the Ground,

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So many Tears she shed in copious Showers:
Both Tears and Drops of Blood were turn'd to Flow'rs.
From these in crimson Beauty sprung the Rose,
Cærulean-bright Anemonies from those.
The Death of fair Adonis I deplore,
The lovely Youth Adonis is no more.
No longer in lone Woods lament the dead,
O Queen of Love! behold the stately Bed,
On which Adonis, now depriv'd of Breath,
Seems sunk in Slumbers, beauteous ev'n in Death.

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Dress him, fair Goddess, in the softest Vest,
In which he oft with thee dissolv'd to Rest;
On golden Pillow be his Head reclin'd,
And let past Joys be imag'd in thy Mind.
Though Death the Beauty of his Bloom devours,
Crown him with Chaplets of the fairest Flowers;
Alas! the Flowers have lost their gaudy Pride,
With him they flourish'd, and with him they died.
With odorous Myrtle deck his drooping Head,
And o'er his Limbs the sweetest Essence shed:
Ah! rather perish every rich Perfume,
The sweet Adonis perish'd in his Bloom.
Clad in a purple Robe Adonis lies;
Surrounding Cupids heave their Breasts with Sighs,

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Their Locks they shear, Excess of Grief to show,
They spurn the Quiver, and they break the Bow.
Some loose his Sandals with officious Care,
Some in capacious golden Vessels bear

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The cleansing Water from the crystal Springs;
This bathes his Wound, that fans him with his Wings.
For Venus' sake the pitying Cupids shed
A Shower of Tears, and mourn Adonis dead.
Already has the Nuptial God, dismay'd,
Quench'd his bright Torch, for all his Garlands fade.
No more are joyful Hymenæals sung,
But Notes of Sorrow dwell on ev'ry Tongue;

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While all around the general Grief partake
For lov'd Adonis, and for Hymen's sake.
With loud Laments the Graces all deplore,
And cry, ‘the fair Adonis is no more.’
The Muses, wailing the wild Woods among,
Strive to recall him with harmonious Song:
Alas! no Sounds of Harmony he hears,
For cruel Proserpine has clos'd his Ears.
Cease, Venus, cease, thy soft Complaints forbear,
Reserve thy Sorrows for the mournful Year.

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IDYLLIUM II. CUPID AND THE FOWLER.

A youth, once fowling in a shady Grove,
On a tall Box-tree spy'd the God of Love,
Perch'd like a beauteous Bird; with sudden Joy
At Sight so noble leap'd the simple Boy.
With eager Expedition he prepares
His choicest Twigs, his Bird-lime, and his Snares,
And in a neighb'ring Covert smil'd to see
How here and there he skipt, and hopt from Tree to Tree.
When long in vain he waited to betray
The God, enrag'd he flung his Twigs away,

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And to a Plough-man near, an antient Man,
Of whom he learn'd his Art, the Youngster ran,
Told the strange Story, while he held his Plough,
And show'd the Bird then perch'd upon a Bough,
The grave old Plough-man archly shook his Head,
Smil'd at the simple Boy, and thus he said:
“Cease, cease, my Son, this dangerous Sport give o'er,
“Fly far away, and chase that Bird no more:
“Blest should you fail to catch him!—Hence, away!
“That Bird, believe me, is a Bird of Prey:
“Though now he seems to shun you all he can,
“Yet, soon as Time shall lead you up to Man,
“He'll spread his flutt'ring Pinions o'er your Breast,
“Perch on your Brow, and in your Bosom nest.”

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IDYLLIUM III. THE TEACHER TAUGHT.

As late I slumbering lay, before my Sight
Bright Venus rose in Visions of the Night:
She led young Cupid; as in Thought profound
His modest Eyes were fix'd upon the Ground;
And thus she spoke: “To thee, dear Swain, I bring
“My little Son; instruct the Boy to sing.”

No more she said; but vanish'd into Air,
And left the wily Pupil to my Care:
I, sure I was an Ideot for my Pains,
Began to teach him old bucolic Strains;
How Pan the Pipe, how Pallas form'd the Flute,
Phœbus the Lyre, and Mercury the Lute:
Love, to my Lessons quite regardless grown,
Sung lighter Lays, and Sonnets of his own,

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Th'Amours of Men below, and Gods above,
And all the Triumphs of the Queen of Love.
I, sure the simplest of all Shepherd-swains,
Full soon forgot my old bucolic Strains;
The lighter Lays of Love my Fancy caught,
And I remember'd all that Cupid taught.

IDYLLIUM IV. THE POWER OF LOVE.

The sacred Nine delight in cruel Love,
Tread in his Steps, and all his Ways approve:
Should some rude Swain, whom Love could ne'er refine,
Woo the fair Muses, they his Suit decline;
But if the love-sick Shepherd sweetly sing,
The tuneful Choir, attending in a Ring,
Catch the soft Sounds, and tune the vocal Shell;
This Truth by frequent Precedent I tell:
For when I praise some Hero on my Lyre,
Or, nobly daring, to a God aspire,

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In Strains more languid flows the nerveless Song,
Or dies in faltering Accents on my Tongue:
But when with Love or Lycidas I glow,
Smooth are my Lays, the Numbers sweetly flow.

IDYLLIUM V. LIFE TO BE ENJOYED.

If Merit only stamps my former Lays,
And those alone shall give me deathless Praise:
But if ev'n those have lost their bright Applause,
Why should I labour thus without a Cause?
For if great Jove or Fate would stretch our Span,
And give of Life a double Share to Man,
One Part to Pleasures and to Joy ordain,
And vex the other with hard Toil and Pain;

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With sweet Complacence we might then employ
Our Hours, for Labour still enhances Joy.
But since of Life we have but one small Share,
A Pittance scant which daily Toils impair,
Why should we waste it in Pursuit of Care?

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Why do we labour to augment our Store,
The more we gain, still coveting the more?
Alas! alas! we quite forget that Man
Is a mere Mortal, and his Life a Span.

IDYLLIUM VI. CLEODAMUS AND MYRSON.

CLEODAMUS.
Say, in their Courses circling as they tend,
What Season is most grateful to my Friend?
Summer, whose Suns mature the teeming Ground,
Or golden Autumn, with full Harvests crown'd?
Or Winter hoar, when soft reclin'd at Ease,
The Fire fair-blazing, and sweet Leisure please?
Or genial Spring in blooming Beauty gay?
Speak, Myrson, while around the Lambkins play.

MYRSON.
It ill becomes frail Mortals to define
What's best and fittest of the Works divine;

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The Works of Nature all are grateful found,
And all the Seasons in their various Round.
But since my Friend demands my private Voice,
Then learn the Season that is Myrson's Choice.
Me the hot Summer's sultry Heats displease;
Fell Autumn teems with pestilent Disease;
Tempestuous Winter's chilling Frosts I fear;
But wish for purple Spring through all the Year.
Then neither Cold nor Heat molests the Morn;
But rosy Plenty fills her copious Horn:
Then bursting Buds their odorous Blooms display,
And Spring makes equal Night, and equal Day.

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IDYLLIUM VII. THE EPITHALAMIUM OF ACHILLES AND DEIDAMIA.

MYRSON and LYCIDAS.
MYRSON.
Say, wilt thou, Lycidas, sweet Shepherd-swain,
Begin some soothing, soft Sicilian Strain,
Such as the Cyclops, on a Rock reclin'd,
Sung to the Sea-nymph, to compose his Mind,
And sent it in the Whispers of the Wind?

LYCIDAS.
What can I sing that Myrson will commend?
With Pleasure I would gratify my Friend.

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MYRSON.
Repeat the Song which most my Taste approves,
Achilles' stol'n Embrace, and hidden Loves;
How the bold Hero laid his Arms aside,
A Woman's Robe the manly Sex belied,
And Deidamia soon became his Bride.

LYCIDAS.
When with fair Helen Paris cross'd the Deep,
Brought her to Troy, and made Oenone weep;
The injur'd States of Greece were all alarm'd,
Spartans, Mycenians, and Laconians arm'd;
The Treachery stung their Souls, and bloody Vengeance warm'd:
In close Disguise his Life Achilles led,
Among the Daughters of King Lycomed:
Instead of Arms the Hero learn'd to cull
The snowy Fleece, and weave the twisted Wool.
Like theirs, his Cheeks a rosy Bloom display'd,
Like them he seem'd a fair and lovely Maid;

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As soft his Air, as delicate his Tread,
Like them he cover'd with a Veil his Head:
But in his Veins the Tides of Courage flow'd,
And Love's soft Passion in his Bosom glow'd;
By Deidamia's Side from Morn to Night
He sat, and with ineffable Delight
Oft kiss'd her snow-white Hand, or gently press'd
The blooming Virgin to his glowing Breast.
His Soul was all enraptur'd with her Charms,
Ardent he long'd to clasp her in his Arms;
Oft in her Ear these Words enamour'd said,
“By Pairs your Sisters press the downy Bed;
“But we, two Maids of equal Age and Bloom,
“Still Sleep divided in a separate Room.
“Why should the Night, more cruel than the Day,
“Steal the sweet Virgin, whom I love away? [OMITTED]

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IDYLLIUM VIII. LOVE RESISTLESS.

Sweet Venus, Daughter of the Main,
Why are you pleas'd with Mortals Pain?
What mighty Trespass have they done,
That thus you scourge them with your Son?
A guileful Boy, a cruel Foe,
Whose chief Delight is human Woe.
You gave him Wings, alas! and Darts,
To range the World, and shoot at Hearts:
For Man no Safety thus is found—
His Flight o'ertakes, his Arrows wound.

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IDYLLIUM IX. FRIENDSHIP.

Thrice happy they! whose friendly Hearts can burn
With purest Flame, and meet a kind Return.
With dear Pirithoüs, as Poets tell,
Theseus was happy in the Shades of Hell:
Orestes' Soul no Fears, no Woes deprest;
'Midst Scythians he with Pylades was blest.
Blest was Achilles while his Friend surviv'd,
Blest was Patroclus every Hour he liv'd;
Blest when in Battle he resign'd his Breath,
For his unconquer'd Friend reveng'd his Death.

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FRAGMENTS OF BION.

FRAGMENT I. ON HYACINTHUS.

Desponding Sorrow seized Apollo's Heart;
All Cures he try'd, and practis'd every Art;
With Nectar and Ambrosia drest the Wound:
Useless, alas! all Remedies are found,
When Fate with cruel Shears encompasses around.

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FRAGMENT II.

[Thus to the Smith it is not fair]

Thus to the Smith it is not fair,
My Friend, for ever to repair,
And still another's Aid to ask:
Make your own Pipe; 'tis no such arduous Task.

FRAGMENT III.

[Invite the Muses, Love, and in your Train]

Invite the Muses, Love, and in your Train,
Ye sacred Muses, bring me Love again!
And ever grant, my Wishes to complete,
The Gift of Song—no Remedy so sweet!

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FRAGMENT IV.

[Incessant Drops, as Proverbs say]

Incessant Drops, as Proverbs say,
Will wear the hardest Stones away.

FRAGMENT V.

[On a steep Cliff, beside the sandy Beach]

On a steep Cliff, beside the sandy Beach,
Sudden I stop, and, whispering soft, beseech
Relentless Galatea; even in Age
Love still shall bloom, and still my Hopes engage.

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FRAGMENT. VI.

[Let me not pass without Reward!]

Let me not pass without Reward!
For Phæbus on each tuneful Bard
Some Gift bestows: The noblest Lays
Are owing to the Thirst of Praise.

FRAGMENT. VII.

[In Beauty boasts fair Woman-kind]

In Beauty boasts fair Woman-kind;
Man, in a firm, undaunted Mind.

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[[The Works of MOSCHUS.]]

THE IDYLLIUMS OF MOSCHUS.

Translated from the Greek.

O Solitude, on me bestow
The heart-felt Harmony of Woe,
Such, such as on th'Ausonian Shore
Sweet Dorian Moschus trill'd of yore!
Grainger's Ode on Solitude.

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IDYLLIUM I.

[In Search of her Son, to the listening Crowd]

In Search of her Son, to the listening Crowd,
T'other Day lovely Venus thus cry'd him aloud;
‘Whoever may chance a stray Cupid to meet,
‘My vagabond Boy, as he strolls in the Street,

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‘And will bring me the News, his Reward shall be this,
‘He may freely demand of fair Venus a Kiss;
‘But if to my Arms he the Boy can restore,
‘He's welcome to Kisses, and something still more.
‘His Marks are so plain, and so many, you'll own
‘That among twenty others he's easily known.

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‘His Skin is not white, but the Colour of Flame;
‘His Eyes are most cruel, his Heart is the same:
‘His delicate Lips with Persuasion are hung;
‘But, ah! how they differ, his Mind and his Tongue!
‘His Voice sweet as Honey; but nought can controul,
‘Whene'er he's provok'd, his implacable Soul.
‘He never speaks Truth, full of Fraud is the Boy;
‘And Woe is his Pastime, and Sorrow his Joy.
‘His Head is embellish'd with bright curling Hair;
‘He has confident Looks, and an insolent Air.
‘Though his Hands are but little, yet Darts they can fling
‘To the Regions below, and their terrible King.

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‘His Body quite naked to View is reveal'd,
‘But he covers his Mind, and his Thoughts are conceal'd.
‘Like a Bird light of Feather, the Branches among,
‘He skips here and there, to the old, to the young,
‘From the Men to the Maids on a sudden he strays,
‘And hid in their Hearts on their Vitals he preys.
‘The Bow which he carries is little and light,
‘On the Nerve is an Arrow wing'd ready for Flight,
‘A little short Arrow, yet swiftly it flies
‘Through Regions of Æther, and pierces the Skies.
‘A Quiver of Gold on his Shoulders is bound,
‘Stor'd with Darts, that alike Friends and Enemies wound:
‘Ev'n I, his own Mother, in vain strive to shun
‘His Arrows—so fell and so cruel my Son,
‘His Torch is but small, yet so ardent its Ray,
‘It scorches the Sun, and extinguishes Day.

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‘O you, who perchance may the Fugitive find,
‘Secure first his Hands, and with Manacles bind;
‘Show the Rogue no Compassion, though oft he appears
‘To weep—his are all hypocritical Tears.
‘With Caution conduct him, nor let him beguile
‘Your vigilant Care with a treacherous Smile.

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‘Perhaps with a Laugh Kisses sweet he will proffer;
‘His Kisses are Poison, ah! shun the vile Offer.
‘Perhaps he'll say, sobbing: “No Mischief I know;
“Here take all my Arrows, my Darts and my Bow!”
‘Ah! beware, touch them not—deceitful his Aim;
‘His Darts and his Arrows are all tipt with Flame.’

IDYLLIUM II. EUROPA.

The Queen of Love, on amorous Wiles intent,
A pleasing Dream to fair Europa sent.
What time still Night had roll'd the Hours away,
And the fresh Dawn began to promise Day,

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When balmy Slumbers, and composing Rest,
Close every Eye, and sooth the pensive Breast,
When Dreams and Visions fill the busy Brain,
Prophetic Dreams, that never rise in vain:

246

'Twas then Europa, as she sleeping lay,
Chaste as Diana, Sister of the Day,
Saw in her Cause the adverse Shore engag'd
In War with Asia; terribly they rag'd:
Each seem'd a Woman; that in foreign Guise,
A Native this, and claim'd the lovely Prize
With louder Zeal: ‘The beauteous Nymph, she said,
‘Her Daughter was, and in her Bosom bred.’
But she, who as a Stranger was array'd,
Forc'd to her Arms the unresisting Maid;
Call'd her her right, by all the Powers above,
Giv'n her by Fate, and Ægis-bearing Jove.

The fair Europa, struck with sudden Dread,
All pale and trembling started from her Bed;
Silent she sat, and thought the Vision true,
Still seem'd their Forms to strive before her View:
At length she utter'd thus the Voice of Fear;
“Ye Gods, what Spectres to my Sight appear?
“What Dreams are these, in Fancy's Livery drest,
“That haunt my Sleep, and break my golden Rest?

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“And who that Form that seem'd so wond'rous kind?
“The dear Idea still delights my Mind.
“She, like a Mother, press'd me in her Arms:
“But, O ye Gods! that send such strange Alarms,
“Preserve these visionary Scenes from Harms.

She said, and lightly from her Couch she sprung,
Then sought her Comrades, beautiful and Young,
Her social Mates; with them she lov'd to lave
Her Limbs unblemish'd in the chrystal Wave:
With them on Lawns the sprightly Dance to lead,
Or pluck sweet Lillies in the flowery Mead.
The Nymphs assembled soon, a beauteous Band!
With each a curious Basket in her Hand;
Then reach'd those Fields where oft they play'd before,
The fragrant Fields along the Sea-beat Shore,
To gather Flowers, and hear the Billows roar.

Europa's Basket, radiant to behold,
The Work of Vulcan, was compos'd of Gold;

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He gave it Libya, mighty Neptune's Bride,
She Telephassa, next in Blood ally'd;
From her bequeath'd to fair Europa came
This splendid Basket of celestial Frame.
Fair in the Work the Milk-white Iö stood
In roughen'd Gold, and lowing paw'd the Flood,
(For Vulcan there had pour'd the azure Main)
A Heifer still, nor yet transform'd again.
Two Men stood figur'd on the Ocean's Brim,
Who watch'd the Cow, that seem'd inclin'd to swim.
Jove too appear'd enamour'd on the Strand,
And strok'd the lovely Heifer with his Hand:
Till, on the Banks of Nile again array'd,
In native Beauty shone the blooming Maid:
The sev'n-mouth'd Nile in silver Currents roll'd,
And Jove was sculptur'd in refulgent Gold.

249

Near piping Hermes sleepless Argus lies,
Watching the Heifer with his hundred Eyes:
From Argus slain a painted Peacock grew,
Fluttering his Feathers stain'd with various Hue,
And, as a Ship expands her swelling Sail,
He round the Basket spread his starry Tail.
Such were the Scenes the Lemnian God display'd,
And such the Basket of the Tyrian Maid.

The lovely Damsels gather'd Flow'rets bright,
Sweet to the Smell, and beauteous to the Sight;
The fragrant Hyacinth of purple Hue,
Narcissus, wild Thyme, and the Violet blue;
Some the gilt Crocus or pale Lilly chose,
But fair Europa cropp'd the blooming Rose;
And all her Mates excell'd in radiant Mein,
As midst the Graces shines the Cyprian Queen.
Not long, alas! in these fair Fields she shone,
Nor long unloos'd preserv'd her virgin Zone;

250

Saturnian Jove beheld the matchless Maid,
And sudden Transports the rapt God invade;

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He glows with all the fervid Flame of Love;
For Cupid's Arrows pierce the Breast of Jove.
But, best his amorous Intent to screen,
And shun the jealous Anger of his Queen,
He laid his Immortality aside,
And a Bull's Form th'intriguing God bely'd;

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But not of earthly Shape, or mortal Breed,
Such as at large in flowery Pastures feed;
Whose stubborn Necks beneath the Yoke we bow,
Break to the Wain, or harness to the Plough.
His golden Hue distinguish'd him afar;
Full in his Forehead beam'd a silver Star:
His large blue Eyes, that shone serenely bright,
Languish'd with Love, and sparkled with Delight:
On his broad Temples rose two equal Horns,
Like that fair Crescent which the Skies adorns.

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Gently he moves with peaceful Look and bland,
And spreads no Terror in the Virgin Band:
Nearer they draw, with eager Longing led
To stroke his Sides, and pat his comely Head:
His Breath divine ambrosial Odours yields,
Sweeter than Fragrance of the flowery Fields.
At fair Europa's Feet with Joy he stands,
And prints sweet Kisses on her lilly Hands.
His foamy Lips she wipes, unaw'd by Dread,
And strokes his Sides, and pats his comely Head.
Gently he low'd, as musical and clear
As Notes soft warbled on the raptur'd Ear:
And, as on Earth his plyant Knees he bent,
Show'd his broad Back, that hinted what he meant;
Then turn'd his suppliant Eyes, and view'd the Maid;
Who thus, astonish'd, to her Comrades said:

“Say, dearest Mates, what can this Beast intend?
“Let us (for lo! he stoops) his Back ascend,
“And ride in sportive Gambols round the Mead;
“This lovely Bull is, sure, of gentlest Breed;

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“So meek his Manner, so benign his Mind,
“He wants but Voice to equal Human-kind.”

So spoke the Fair, and up she rose to ride,
And call'd her lingering Partners to her Side:
Soon as the Bull his pleasing Burden bore,
Vigorous he sprung, and hasten'd to the Shore.
The Nymph dismay'd invok'd the Virgin Band
For Help, and wav'd her unavailing Hand.
On the soft Bosom of the azure Flood
With his fair Prize the Bull triumphant rode:
Up rose the Nereids to attend his Train,
And all the mighty Monsters of the Main.

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Cærulean Neptune was the Thunderer's Guide,
And for the passing Pomp he smooth'd the Tide:
The Tritons hail'd him as he steer'd along,
And sounded on their Conchs the nuptial Song.
On Jove's broad Back the lovely Damsel borne
Grasp'd with her fair right Hand his polish'd Horn,
Her left essay'd her purple Robe to save,
That lightly brush'd the Surface of the Wave:
Around her Head soft breath'd the gentle Gale,
And fill'd her Garment like a swelling Sail.
Europa's Heart throbb'd quick with chilling Fear,
Far from her much-lov'd Home, and Comrades dear;
No sea-beat Shore she saw, nor Mountain'sB row,
Nor aught but Sky above, and Waves below.

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Then with a mournful Look the Damsel said:

“Ah! whither wilt thou bear a wretched Maid?

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“Who, and whence art thou, wond'rous Creature, say?
“How canst thou fearless tread the watry Way?
“On the broad Ocean safely sails the Ship,
“But Bulls avoid, and dread the stormy Deep.
“Say, can a Bull on sea-born Viands feed?
“Or, if descended from celestial Breed,
“Thy Acts are inconsistent with a God:
“Bulls rove the Meads, and Dolphins swim the Flood;
“But Earth and Ocean are alike to thee,
“Thy Hoofs are Oars that row thee through the Sea.
“Perhaps, like airy Birds, thou soon wilt fly,
“And soar amidst the Regions of the Sky.
“Ah! wretched Maid, to leave my native Home,
“And simply dare with Bulls in Meads to roam!
“And now on Seas I ride—ah! wretched Maid!
“But, O! I trust, great Neptune, in thy Aid;

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“Soon let my Eyes my great Conductor hail,
“For not without a Deity I sail.”

Thus spoke the Nymph, and thus the Bull reply'd:
“Courage, fair Maid, nor fear the foaming Tide;
“Though now a Bull I seem to mortal Eyes,
“Thou soon shalt see me Ruler of the Skies.
“What Shape I please, at Will I take and keep,
“And now a Bull I cross the boundless Deep;
“For thy bright Charms inspire my Breast with Love:
“But soon shall Crete's fair Isle, the Nurse of Jove,
“Receive Europa on its friendly Strand,
“To join with me in Hymen's blissful Band:
“From thee shall Kings arise in long Array,
“To rule the World with delegated Sway.”

Thus spoke the God; and what he spoke prov'd true:
For soon Crete's lofty Shore appear'd in View:
Jove strait assum'd another Form and Air,
And loos'd her Zone; the Hours the Couch prepare,

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The Nymph Europa thus, through powerful Love,
Became the Bride of cloud-compelling Jove:
From her sprung mighty Kings in long Array,
Who rul'd the World with delegated Sway.

IDYLLIUM III. ON THE DEATH OF BION.

Ye Woods, with Grief your waving Summits bow,
Ye Dorian Fountains, murmur as ye flow,
From weeping Urns your copious Sorrows shed,
And bid the Rivers mourn for Bion dead:
Ye shady Groves, in Robe of sable Hue
Bewail; ye Plants, in pearly Drops of Dew:

260

Ye drooping Flowers, diffuse a languid Breath,
And die with Sorrow at sweet Bion's Death:
Ye Roses change from red to sickly pale,
And, all ye bright Anemonies, bewail:
Now, Hyacinth, thy doleful Letters show
Inscrib'd in larger Characters of Woe
For Bion dead, the sweetest Shepherd Swain.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Strain!
Ye Nightingales, that perch among the Sprays,
Tune to melodious Elegy your Lays,
And bid the Streams of Arethuse deplore
Bion's sad Fate; lov'd Bion is no more:
Nor Verse nor Music could his Life prolong,
He died, and with him died the Doric Song.

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Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Strain!
Ye Swans of Strymon, in loud Notes complain,
Pensive, yet sweet, and droop the sickly Wing,
As when your own sad Elegy ye sing.
All the fair Damsels of Oëagria tell,
And all the Nymphs that in Bistonia dwell,
That Doric Orpheus charms no more the Plains.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Strains!
No more he sooths his Oxen at the Yoke,
No more he chants beneath the lonely Oak.
Compell'd, alas! a doleful Dirge to sing
To the grim God, the deaf Tartarean King.
And now each straggling Heifer strays alone,
And to the silent Mountains makes her Moan;

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The Bulls loud bellowing o'er the Forests rove,
Forsake their Pasture, and forget their Love.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay!
Thy Fate, O Bion, wept the God of Day;
Pan griev'd; the dancing Satyrs and the Fauns
March'd slow and sad, and sigh'd along the Lawns:
Then wail'd the Nymphs that o'er the Streams preside,
Fast flow'd their Tears, and swell'd the chrystal Tide,
Mute Echo now laments the Rocks among,
Griev'd she no more can imitate thy Song.
The Flow'rets fade, and wither'd are the Trees,
Those lose their Beauty, and their Verdure these.

263

The Ewes no more with milky Udders thrive,
No more drops Honey from the fragrant Hive;
The Bees, alas! have lost their little Store,
And what avails it now to work for more,
When from thy Lips the Honey's stol'n away?

Begin, Sicilian, Muse, begin the mournful Lay!
Ne'er did the Dolphin on the azure Main
In such pathetic Energy complain;
Nor Philomel with such melodious Woe
E'er wail'd, nor Swallow on the Mountain's Brow:
Nor did Alcyone transform'd deplore
So loud her Lover dash'd upon the Shore.

264

Not Memnon's Birds such Signs of Sorrow gave,
When, screaming round, they hover'd o'er his Grave:
As now in melancholy Mood they shed
Their plaintive Tears, lamenting Bion dead.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay!
The Nightingales, that perch upon the Spray,
The Swallows shrill, and all the feather'd Throng,
Whom Bion taught, and ravish'd with his Song,
Now sunk in Grief their pensive Music ply,
And strive to sing their Master's Elegy;
And all the Birds in all the Groves around
Strain their sweet Throats to emulate the Sound:
Ye turtles too, the gentle Bard deplore,
And with deep Murmurs fill the sounding Shore.

265

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Lay!
Who now, lov'd Shepherd, on thy Pipe shall play?
Still, still, methinks, the melting Notes I hear,
But, ah! more faint they die upon my Ear.
Echo, still listening, roves the Meads along,
Or near the Rocks still meditates thy Song.
To Pan I'll give thy tuneful Pipe, though he
Will fear, perchance, to be surpass'd by thee.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Strain!
Thee Galatea weeps, sweet Shepherd-swain;
For oft thy graceful Form her Bosom warm'd,
Thy Song delighted, and thy Music charm'd:
She shunn'd the Cyclops, and his Numbers rude,
But thee with ardent Love the Nymph pursu'd:
She left the Sea, her Element, and feeds,
Forlorn, thy Cattle on the flowery Meads.

Begin, Sicilian, Muse, the mournful Lay!
Alas! the Muses will no longer stay,
No longer on these lonely Coasts abide;
With thee they warbled, and with thee they died:

266

With Bion perish'd all the Grace of Song,
And all the Kisses of the Fair and Young.
The little Loves, lamenting at his Doom,
Strike their fair Breasts, and weep around his Tomb.
See Venus too her beauteous Bosom beat!
She lov'd her Shepherd more than Kisses sweet,
More than those last dear Kisses, which in Death
She gave Adonis, and imbib'd his Breath.
Meles! of Streams in Melody the chief,
Now heaves thy Bosom with another Grief;
Thy Homer died, great Master of the Song,
Thy Homer died, the Muses sweetest Tongue:
Then did thy Waves in plaintive Murmurs weep,
And roll'd thy swelling Sorrows to the Deep:
Another Son demands the Meed of Woe,
Again thy Waters weep in long-drawn Murmurs slow.

267

Dear to the Fountains was each tuneful Son,
This drank of Arethuse, that Helicon:
He sung Atrides' and Achilles' Ire,
And the fair Dame that set the World on Fire:
This form'd his Numbers on a softer Plan,
And chaunted Shepherds Loves, and peaceful Pan;
His Flock he tended on the flowery Meads,
And milk'd his Kine, or join'd with Wax the Reeds;
Oft in his Bosom he would Cupid take,
And Venus lov'd him for her Cupid's Sake.

Begin, Sicilian Muse, the mournful Strains!
Thee all the Cities of the Hills and Plains,
Illustrious Bard, in silent Grief deplore;
Ascra for Hesiod ne'er lamented more;
Not thus Bœotia mourn'd her Theban Swan,
Nor thus the Tears for bold Alcæus ran;
Not Ceos for Simonides, nor thus
Griev'd Paros for her Bard Archilocus:

268

The Shepherds of the Lesbian Isle have long
Neglected Sappho's for thy sweeter Song:
And all that breathe the past'ral Reed rehearse
Thy Fate, O Bion, in harmonious Verse.
Sicelidas, the Samian Shepherd sweet,
And Lycidas, the blythest Bard of Crete,
Whose sprightly Looks erst spoke their Hearts elate,
Now sorrowing mourn thy sad untimely Fate;
Mourns too Philetas' elegiac Muse,
And sweet Theocritus of Syracuse:
I too, with Tears, from Italy have brought
Such plain Bucolics as my Master taught;
Which, if at all with tuneful Ease they flow,
To thy learn'd Precepts and thy Art I owe.
To other Heirs thy Riches may belong,
I claim thy past'ral Pipe and Doric Song;

269

In Doric Song my pensive Boon I pay:

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Lay!
Alas! the meanest Flowers which Gardens yield,
The vilest Weeds that flourish in the Field,

270

Which dead in wintry Sepulchres appear,
Revive in Spring, and bloom another Year:
But We, the Great, the Brave, the Learn'd, the Wise,
Soon as the Hand of Death has clos'd our Eyes,
In Tombs forgotten lie, no Suns restore,
We sleep, for ever sleep, to wake no more.
Thou too liest buried with the silent dead:
Fate spares the Witlings, but thy vital Thread
Snapp'd cruel Chance! and now 'tis my hard Lot
To hear the dull Bards (but I envy not)
Grate their harsh Sonnets, flashy, rude, and vain:

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Strain!
O hapless Bion! Poison was thy Fate;
The baneful Potion circumscrib'd thy Date:
How could fell Poison cause Effect so strange,
Touch thy sweet Lips, and not to Honey change?
How could the savage Wretch, that mix'd the Draught,
Hear heavenly Music with a murderous Thought?

271

Could not thy Songs his hellish Purpose sway?

Begin, Sicilian Muse, begin the mournful Lay!
But soon just Vengeance will his Crime pursue,
While I with pious Tears thy Tomb bedew.
Could I like Orpheus, as old Poets tell,
Or mighty Hercules, descend to Hell;
To Pluto's dreary Mansion I would go,
To hear what Music Bion plays below.
List to my Counsel, gentle Shepherd-swain,
And softly warble some Sicilian Strain,
(Such as, when living, gave divine Delight)
To sooth the Empress of the Realms of Night;
For she, ere Pluto seiz'd the trembling Maid,
Sung Dorian Lays, and in these Meadows play'd.

272

Nor unrewarded shall thy Numbers prove,
The Dame will pity, though she cannot love;
As once she heard the Thracian's tuneful Prayer,
And gave him back Eurydice the fair,
She'll pity now thy more melodious Strain,
And send thee to thy Hills and Woods again.
Could I in powerful Harmony excell,
For thee my Pipe should charm the rigid King of Hell.

IDYLLIUM IV. MEGARA.

MEGARA.

“Why these Complaints, and whence that dreadful Sigh?
“Why on thy Cheek do thus the Roses die?
“Is it to see thy glorious Son sustain,
“From worthless Hands, Pre-eminence of Pain?

273

“A Lion tortur'd by a Fawn!—Great Jove!
“Why such injurious Treatment must I prove?
“Why with such adverse Omens was I born?
“Wretch that I am! E'er since the nuptial Morn
“When to my Arms my matchless Lord was given,
“Dear have I priz'd him as the Light of Heaven;
“And prize him still—Sure none has suffer'd more,
“Or drank such Draughts of Sorrow's Cup before.
“With Phœbus' Gift, his Bow, he pierc'd the Hearts
“Of his own Sons; or rather, arm'd with Darts

274

“Which Fates or Furies furnish'd, every Child
“In his own House he slew, with Frenzy wild.
“Than Dreams more dreadful, with these streaming Eyes,
(“While to their Mother, with incessant Cries,
“Their helpless Mother, they exclaim'd in vain)
“By their own Sire I saw the Children slain.
“But as a Bird bewails her callow Brood,
“While in the Brake a Serpent drains their Blood,

275

“And, all too weak the wish'd Relief to bring,
“Twittering her shrill Complaints, on feeble Wing
“At Distance hovers, nor will venture near
“The fell Destroyer, chill'd with conscious Fear;
“So I, all frantic, the wide Mansion o'er,
“Unhappy Mother! my lost Sons deplore.
“O blest, Diana, Goddess of the Chace,
“Tyrant confess'd o'er Woman's helpless Race,
“With my dear Sons had thy envenom'd Dart
“Kindly transfix'd their Mother's bleeding Heart,
“Then my sad Parents might, with friendly Care,
“Have seen one Pile our breathless Bodies bear,

276

“At once, with many a Tear, to every Shade
“The decent Rites of Sepulture have paid,
“And in one golden Urn that sacred Earth
“Our Ashes have receiv'd, which gave us Birth.
“But Thebes they now inhabit, fam'd for Steeds,
“Or toilsome till Aönia's fruitful Meads:
“While to my Sorrows no Relief is given,
“At Tiryns, sacred to the Queen of Heaven,
“In Tears unnumber'd wasting Life away,
“To Joy a Stranger, to Despair a Prey.
“But soon my Lord will bless my Eyes again,
“For various Labours he must yet sustain
“By Land and Sea, like Iron or a Rock
“Unmov'd, and still superior to the Shock:
“While like a Stream thy Sorrows ever flow,
“By Day, by Night, alike dissolv'd in Woe.

277

“Of all to me by Tyes of Kindred join'd,
“Thou only now canst chear my anxious Mind:
“Far from this Mansion, though in Blood ally'd,
“Beyond the pine-clad Isthmus they reside.
“Not one remains who can console my Grief,
“Or to a wretched Woman give Relief,
“Except my Sister Pyrrha; all the Day
“She too bewails her Husband snatch'd away,
“Thy Son Iphiclus: Wretched all thy Line,
“Whether their Sire be mortal or divine!”

Fast, while she spoke, th'o'erflowing Tears distill'd
Adown her Cheeks, and her fair Bosom fill'd;
Her Sons, her Parents rising to her View:
In sad Society, Alcmena too
Roll'd the big Tear; and from her heaving Breast,
In Accents sage, her Daughter thus addrest:

278

“Why, hapless Parent, should thine Eyes o'erflow?
“Why should Remembrance thus renew thy Woe?
“Why thus afflict us both? or why once more
“Repeat the Loss we oft have wept before?
“Sure each sad Day sufficient Sorrows bears;
“And none but Wretches would recount our Cares!
“Be chear'd, my Daughter, and, these Ills forgot,
“Think that the Gods a happier Doom allot.
“And though on Grief thy Thoughts are all employ'd,
“I no Excuse require, with Pleasure cloy'd.
“Much I lament, that thou so vast a Weight
“Of Woe should'st share in our disastrous Fate.
“For, O blest Proserpine and Ceres, know,
(“Powers justly dreaded by the perjur'd Foe)

279

“That I not more could love thee, if my Womb
“With thee had teem'd, or had thy Virgin-bloom
“Alone remained a Parent's Hope to crown:
“A Truth, Megara, not to thee unknown!
“Then think I view thee with no careless Eye;
“No, though in grief with Niobe I vye:
“Grief for a Son Indulgence sure may gain,
“To me endear'd by ten long Months of Pain;
“And, ere I brought him to the Realms of Day,
“My Life by Pangs was nearly snatch'd away.
“Sent on new Toils he to a distant Shore
“Now roams, and I may ne'er behold him more.

280

“Besides, I lately saw, with wild Affright,
“A direful Vision in the Dead of Night:
“Some great impending Ill, if right I deem,
“Awaits my Sons, from this mysterious Dream.
“In Sleep, methought, my Hercules I spy'd,
“His Garments like a Labourer, thrown aside,
“And, Spade in Hand, employ'd, with arduous Toil,
“To delve a Ditch in some well-cultur'd Soil.
“But when his Task the wish'd Success had crown'd,
“And his wide Fence had girt the Vineyard round,
“He left his Spade fix'd deeply in the Plain,
“And strait prepar'd to cloath his Limbs again;
“When, quick as Thought, above the Trench, behold
“Destructive Flames, which round the Hero roll'd!

281

“From these resistless Foes alarm'd he flew,
“With Foot-steps swift; as swiftly they pursue:
“While, like a Shield, the Spade now serves to guard
“His half-scorch'd Body, and the Fire to ward.
“At length Iphiclus, running to his Aid,
(“Such was my Vision) by his Feet betray'd,
“Before he reach'd him, fell, with headlong Force,
“And there, unable to resume his Course,
“Lay stiff and prostrate; like a feeble Sage,
“Who, falling to the Ground through helpless Age,
“There fix'd remains, till by some Stranger rear'd,
“Pitying his hoary Hairs, and silver Beard:

282

“So on the Plain was brave Iphiclus thrown.
“To see my Sons unaided and alone,
“Fast flow'd my Tears, till Morn with roseate Ray
“Dispell'd my Slumbers, and restor'd the Day.

“Such were the Visions of this Night of Dread!
“Far from our House, on curs'd Eurystheus' Head
“These Omens turn! Be my Presages true,
“And him, O Fate, with Vengeance just pursue!”

IDYLLIUM V. THE CHOICE.

When Zephyrs gently curl the azure Main,
On Land, impatient, I can scarce sustain
At Ease to dwell; a Calm yields more Delight:
But when Old Ocean to a Mountain's Height

283

Rolls, with tremendous Roar, his foaming Floods,
I loath the Sea, and sigh for Fields and Woods.
Safe is the Land; then piny Forests please,
Though hoarse Winds whistle through the bending Trees:
Hapless the Fisher's Life! the Sea his Toil,
His House a Bark, and faithless Fish his Spoil.
But O! to me how sweet are Slumbers, laid
Beneath a lofty Plane's embowering Shade;
And thence the Tinkling of a Rill to hear,
Whose Sound gives Pleasure unallay'd by Fear!

IDYLLIUM VI. CAPRICIOUS LOVE.

Pan sighs for Echo o'er the Lawn;
Sweet Echo loves the dancing Faun;

284

The dancing Faun fair Lyda charms;
As Echo Pan's soft Bosom warms,

285

So for the Faun sweet Echo burns;
Thus all, inconstant in their Turns,
Both fondly woo, are fondly woo'd,
Pursue, and are themselves pursued.
As much as all slight those that woo,
So those that slight are slighted too:

286

Thus rages, by capricious Fate,
Alternate Love, alternate Hate.
Ye scornful Nymphs and Swains, I tell
This Truth to you; pray, mark it well:
If to your Lovers kind you prove,
You'll gain the Hearts of those you love.

IDYLLIUM VII. TO THE EVENING-STAR.

Hail, golden Star! of Ray serene,
Thou Fav'rite of the Cyprian Queen,

287

O Hesper! Glory of the Night,
Diffusing through the Gloom Delight;
Whose Beams all other Stars outshine,
As much as silver Cynthia thine;
O! guide me, speeding o'er the Plain,
To him I love, my Shepherd-swain;
He keeps the mirthful Feast, and soon
Dark Shades will cloud the splendid Moon.

288

Of Lambs I never robb'd the Fold,
Nor the lone Traveller of Gold:
Love is my Crime: O lend thy Ray
To guide a Lover on her Way!
May the bright Star of Venus prove
The gentle Harbinger of Love!

IDYLLIUM VIII. ALPHËUS.

From Pisa, where the Sea his Flood receives,
Alphëus, olive-crown'd, the Gift of Leaves,

289

And Flowers, and sacred Dust is known to bring,
With secret Course, to Arethusa's Spring;
For, plunging deep beneath the briny Tide,
Unmix'd, and unperceiv'd his Waters glide.
Thus wonder-working Love, with Mischief fraught,
The Art of Diving to the River taught.

IDYLLIUM IX. EUNICA; OR, THE HERDSMAN.

When lately I offer'd Eunica to kiss,
She fleer'd, and she flouted, and took it amiss;

290

“Be gone, you great Booby, she cry'd, with a Frown,
“Do you think that I long for your Kisses, you Clown?
“The Sparks of the City my Favours esteem—
“You never shall kiss me, no, not in a Dream.
“How pleasing your Look! and how gently you play!
“How soft is your Voice! and what sine Things you say!
“So neat is your Beard, and so comely your Hair!
“And your Lips, to be sure, are a delicate Pair.
“But on your dear Person I never shall doat;
“So pray keep your distance—you smell like a Goat.”

Thus spoke the proud Hussey, and view'd me all round
With an Eye of Disdain, and thrice spit on the Ground;
Then mimick'd my Voice with satyrical Sneer,
And sent me away with a Flea in my Ear.

291

My Blood quickly boil'd, in a violent Pique,
And, red as a Rose, Passion glow'd on my Cheek;
For it vex'd me, that thus in Derision she jeer'd
My Looks, and my Voice, and my Hair, and my Beard.
But, am I not handsome, ye Shepherds, say true?
Or has any God alter'd my Person anew?
For lately, on Oaks like the Ivy, with Grace
My Hair and my Beard added Charms to my Face:
My Brows were coal-black, and my Forehead milk-white,
And my Eyes, like Minerva's, were azure and bright;
My Lips sweet as Cream, and from them would flow
Words sweeter than Honey, and softer than Snow.
My Songs are enchanting; nor aught can exceed
The Tunes of my Pipe, or the Notes of my Reed.
The Girls of the Country, if they had their Wills,
Would kiss me, and press me to stay on the Hills;
For they say that I'm fair: But this Minx of the Town
Refus'd my sweet Kisses, and call'd me a Clown.

292

Alas! she forgot, or, perhaps, did not know,
That Bacchus fed Herds in the Valley below;
That Beauty's fair Queen fell in Love with a Swain,
And help'd him his Cattle to tend on the Plain;
Adonis, while living, in Groves she ador'd,
And, when dead, she in Groves and on Mountains deplor'd.
If right my Conjecture, Endymion, I ween,
Like me too once tended his Steers on the Green;
Yet the Moon in this Herdsman took such a Delight,
That she met him at Latmos, and kiss'd him all Night.
Ev'n Cybele mourn'd for a Herdsman; and Jove
Snatch'd a Boy from his Flock to be Waiter above.

But Eunica disdains me, nor lists to my Vow;
Is she better than Cynthia or Venus, I trow?
May she never find Lovers in City or Plain,
But lie always alone, yet still wishing in vain!

293

CUPID TURN'D PLOUGHMAN.

AN EPIGRAM.

Disguis'd like a Ploughman, Love stole from the Sky,
His Torch, and his Bow, and his Quiver thrown by;
And, with Pouch at his Shoulder, and Goad in his Hand,
Began with yok'd Oxen to furrow the Land:
And, “O Jove, be propitious, he cry'd, or I vow,
“That I'll yoke thee, Europa's fam'd Bull, to my Plough.”

295

THE LOVES OF HERO and LEANDER.

Translated from the Greek of Musæus.

Oft, by the Covert of Night's Shade,
Leander woo'd the Thracian Maid;
Through foaming Seas his Passion bore,
Nor fear'd the Ocean's thundering Roar.
The conscious Virgin, from the sea-girt Tower,
Hung out the faithful Torch, to guide him to her Bower.
Dodsley's Miscell. Vol. 4. P. 308.

296

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

This celebrated Poem on the Loves of Hero and Leander has been admired by the politest Scholars for many Ages: And though Mr. Waller and several other Writers of the finest Taste have conjectured it to be one of the Stories,

Which old Musœus so divinely sung:

Yet many convincing Arguments might be brought to prove it to have been the Work of a later Author, a Grammarian of that Name who lived in the fifth Century.

Nor let the English Reader look upon the title of Grammarian as a Term of Reproach, though now frequently used as such. The Profession, styled by the Ancients Γραμματικη was the same with the Belles Lettres among the Moderns: And the Appellation of Grammarian was particularly applied to those who excelled in every Kind of polite Writing.

The first English Translation of the following Poem appeared, in the Year 1647, by Sir Robert Stapylton. It has since that Time been frequently attempted; but with what Success is left to the Judgment of others.

297

Sing, Muse! the conscious Torch, whose nightly Ray
Led the bold Lover through the watry Way,
To share those Joys which mutual Faith hath seal'd,
Joys to divine Aurora unreveal'd.
Abydos, Sestos, ancient Towns, proclaim,
Where gentlest Bosoms glow'd with purest Flame.
I hear Leander dash the foaming Tide!
Fix'd high in Air, I see the glimmering Guide!
The genial Flame, the love-enkindling Light,
Signal of Joy that burn'd serenely bright;
Whose Beams, in fair Effulgency display'd,
Adorn'd the Nuptials of the Sestion Maid;
Which Jove, its friendly Office to repay,
Should plant, all-glorious, in the Realms of Day,

298

To blaze for ever 'midst the Stars above,
And style it gentle Harbinger of Love:
For sure on Earth it shone supremely kind,
To sooth the Anguish of the love-sick Mind,
Till cloath'd in Terrors rose the wintry Blast,
Impetuous Howling o'er the watry Waste:
And, O! inspire me, Goddess, to resound
The Torch extinguish'd, and the Lover drown'd.

Against Abydos sea-beat Sestos stood,
Two neighb'ring Towns, divided by the Flood:
Here Cupid prov'd his Bow's unerring Art,
And gain'd two Conquests with a single Dart:
On two fond Hearts the sweet Infection prey'd,
A Youth engaging, and a beauteous Maid:

299

Of Sestos she, fair Hero was her Name;
The Youth, Leander, from Abydos came.
Their Forms divine a bright Resemblance bore,
Each was the radiant Star of either Shore.

Thou, whom the Fates commission here to stray,
Awhile the Turret's Eminence survey;
Thence Hero held the blazing Torch, to guide
Her Lover rolling on the boisterous Tide;
The roaring Hellespont, whose wave-worn Strait
Still in loud Murmurs mourns Leander's Fate.
Say, heav'nly Muse, had Hero Charms to move,
And melt the Abydinian into Love?
Say, with what Wiles the amorous Youth inspir'd,
Obtain'd the Virgin whom his Soul admir'd?

Fair Hero, Priestess to th'Idalian Queen,
Of Birth illustrious, as of graceful Mien,
Dwelt on a high sequester'd Tower, that stood
Firm on the Ramparts, and o'erlook'd the Flood:
Chaste, and unconscious of Love's pleasing Pain,
She seem'd a new-born Venus of the Main;
But, nice of Conduct, prudently withdrew
Far from the Follies of the female Crew:

300

Blest in Retreat, she shunn'd the vain Delight
Of daily Visits, and the Dance at Night,
Content in sweet Tranquillity to screen
Her blooming Beauty from malignant Spleen;
For where superior Beauty shines confest,
It kindles Envy in each female Breast.
To soften Venus oft with Prayer she strove,
Oft pour'd Libations to the God of Love;
Taught by th'Example of the heavenly Dame,
To dread those Arrows that were tipp'd with Flame.
Vain all her Caution, fruitless prov'd her Prayer;
Love gains an easy Conquest o'er the Fair.

For now the sacred Festival appear'd,
By pious Sestians annually rever'd,
At Venus' Fane to pay the Rites divine,
And offer Incense at Adonis' Shrine.
Vast Crowds from all the sea-girt Isles repair,
The Day to rev'rence, and the Feast to share.
From flowery Cyprus, circled by the Main,
And high Hæmonia, hastes the youthful Train;

301

Not one remain'd of all the female Race
Thy Towns, Cythera, and thy Groves to grace;
Afar from spicy Libanus advance
The Throngs unnumber'd, skill'd to lead the Dance;
From Phrygian Plains they haste in Shoals away,
And all Abydos celebrates the Day.
To Sestos all the mirthful Youths repair,
All that admire the Gay, the Young, the Fair;
For amorous Swains, when rumour'd Feasts invite,
Joy at the News, and follow with Delight,
Not to the Gods to pay the Rites divine,
Or offer Incense at some sacred Shrine;
Few are their Offerings, and concise their Prayer,
Who give their whole Devotion to the Fair.

As through the Temple pass'd the Sestian Maid,
Her Face a soften'd Dignity display'd;
Thus silver Cynthia's milder Glories rise,
To glad the pale Dominion of the Skies.
Her lovely Cheeks a pure Vermillion shed,
Like Roses beautifully streak'd with Red;
A flowery Mead her well-turn'd Limbs disclose,
Fraught with the blushing Beauties of the Rose:

302

But when she mov'd, in radiant Mantle drest,
Flowers half unveil'd adorn'd her flowing Vest,
And numerous Graces wanton'd on her Breast.
The ancient Sages made a false Decree,
Who said, the Graces were no more than Three;
When Hero smiles, a thousand Graces rise,
Sport on her Cheek, and revel in her Eyes.
Such various Beauties sure conspir'd to prove
The Priestess worthy of the Queen of Love.
Thus as she shone superior to the rest,
In the sweet Bloom of Youth and Beauty drest,
Such Softness temper'd with majestic Mien,
The earthly Priestess match'd the heav'nly Queen.
The wondering Crowds the radiant Nymph admire,
And every Bosom kindles with Desire;
Eager each longs, transported with her Charms,
To clasp the lovely Virgin in his Arms;
Where'er she turns, their Eyes, their Thoughts pursue,
They sigh, and send their Souls at every View.
Then thus some ardent Youth bespoke the rest,
Cast a fond Look, and open'd all his Breast:

303

“I oft at Sparta wondering have beheld
“Young Maids contending in the listed Field,
“Sparta, that boasts the emulated Prize
“Of fairest Virgins, and of brightest Eyes;
“Yet ne'er till now beheld a Nymph so fair,
“Such beauty blended with such graceful Air:
“Perhaps (for sure immortal is her Race)
“Beneath the Priestess Venus hides a Grace.
“My dazzled Eyes with constant gazing tire,
“But my fond Fancy ever could admire.
“O! make me, Venus, Partner of her Bed,
“Though Fate that Instant strike the Lover dead:
“Let but my Love the heavenly Hero crown,
“I on the Gods will look superior down.
“Should you this Boon deny, O Queen! decree,
“To bless my Days, a Nymph as fair as she!”

Thus spoke the general Voice; the Train apart
Conceal the Wound deep rankling in the Heart.
But when Leander saw the blooming Fair,
Love seiz'd his Soul instead of dumb Despair;
Resolv'd the lucky Moments to improve,
He sought Occasion to reveal his Love;

304

The glorious Prize determin'd to obtain,
Or perish for those Joys he could not gain.
Her sparkling Eyes instilling fond Desire
Entranc'd his Soul, and kindled amorous Fire.
Such radiant Beauty, like the pointed Dart,
With piercing Anguish stings th'unguarded Heart:
For on the Eye the Wound is first imprest,
'Till by Degrees it rankles in the Breast.
Now Hope and Confidence invade his Soul;
Then Fear and Shame alternately controul:
Fear through his Bosom thrill'd; a conscious Shame
Confess'd the Passion which it seem'd to blame:
Her Beauties fix'd him in a wild Amaze;
Love made him bold, and not afraid to gaze.
With Step ambiguous, and affected Air,
The Youth advancing fac'd the charming Fair:

305

Each amorous Glance he cast, tho' form'd by Art,
Yet sometimes spoke the Language of his Heart;
With Nods and Becks he kept the Nymph in play,
And tried all Wiles to steal her Soul away.
Soon as she saw the fraudful Youth beguil'd,
Fair Hero, conscious of her Beauty, smil'd;
Oft in her Veil conceal'd her glowing Face,
Sweetly vermilion'd with the rosy Grace;
Yet all in vain to hide her Passion tries,
She owns it with her love-consenting Eyes.
Joy touch'd the Bosom of the gentle Swain,
To find his Love was not indulg'd in vain.
Then, while he chid the tedious lingering Day,
Down to the West declin'd the solar Ray;
And dewy Hesper shone serenely bright,
In shadowy Silence leading on the Night.
Soon as he saw the dark involving Shade,
Th'embolden'd Youth approach'd the blooming Maid;
Her lilly Hand he seiz'd, and gently prest,
And softly sigh'd the Passion of his Breast:
Joy touch'd the Damsel, tho' she seem'd displeas'd,
And soon withdrew the lilly Hand he seiz'd.

306

The Youth perceiv'd, through well dissembled Wiles,
A Heart just yielding by consenting Smiles;
Then to the Temple's last Recess convey'd
The unreluctant, unresisting Maid:
Her lovely Feet, that seem'd to lag behind,
But ill conceal'd her voluntary Mind.
She feign'd Resentment with an angry Look,
And, sweetly chiding, thus indignant spoke:

“Stranger, what Madness has possess'd thy Brain,
“To drag me thus along the sacred Fane?
“Go—to your native Habitation go—
“'Tis quite unkind to pull my Garments so.
“Rich are my Parents—urge not here your Fate,
“Lest their just Vengeance you repent too late:
“If not of me, of Venus stand afraid,
“In her own Fane soliciting a Maid:
“Hence speed your Flight; and Venus' Anger dread;
“'Tis bold aspiring to a Virgin's Bed,”

Thus chid the Maid, as Maids are wont to do,
And show'd her Anger, and her Fondness too:

307

The wily Youth, as thus the Fair complain'd,
Too well perceiv'd the Victory was gain'd:
For Nymphs enrag'd the more complying prove,
And Chidings are the Harbingers of Love.
He kiss'd her snowy Neck, her fragrant Breast:
And thus the Transport of his Soul exprest:

“O lovely Fair, in whom combin'd are seen
“The Charms of Venus, and Minerva's Mien!
“For sure no Virgin of terrestrial Race
“Can vye with Hero in the Bloom of Face:
“I deem your Lineage from the Gods above,
“And style you Daughter of Saturnian Jove.
“Blest is the Father from whose Loins you sprung,
“Blest is the Mother at whose Breast you hung,
“Blest, doubly blest, the fruitful Womb that bore
“This heavenly Form for Mortals to adore.

“Yet, beauteous Hero, grant a Lover's Prayer,
“And to my Wishes prove as kind as fair:
“As Venus Priestess, just to Venus prove,
“Nor shun the gentle Offices of Love.
“O let us, while the happy Hour invites,
“Propitious, celebrate the nuptial Rites.

308

“No Maid can serve in Cytherea's Fane;
“Her Eyes delight not in the Virgin-train.
“But would fair Hero secret Rites explore,
“The Laws of Venus, and her pleasing Lore,
“Those Rites are practis'd in the bridal Bed,
“And there must Hero, yet a Maid, be led:
“Then as you fear the Goddess to offend,
“In me behold your Husband and your Friend,
“Ordain'd by Cupid, greatest God above,
“To teach you all the Mysteries of Love:
“As winged Mercury, with golden Wand,
“Made Hercules, with Distaff in his Hand,
“To every Task of Omphale submit;
“Thus Love, more powerful than the God of Wit,
“Sent me to you. 'Tis needless to relate
“The chaste Arcadian Atalanta's Fate;
“Who from th'Embraces of Milanion fled,
“Her faithful Lover, and the nuptial Bed:
“But vengeful Venus caus'd the Nymph to burn
“With equal Flame, and languish in her Turn.
“O let Example warn you to revere
“The wrathful Goddess, and your Lover hear!”

309

Thus spoke the Youth—his magic Words controul
Her wavering Breast, and soften all her Soul.
Silent she stood, and, rapt in Thought profound,
Her modest Fyes were fix'd upon the Ground:
Her Cheeks she hid, in rosy Blushes drest,
And veil'd her lilly Shoulders with her Vest:
On the rich Floor, with Parian Marble laid,
Her nimble Foot involuntary play'd.
By secret Signs a yielding Mind is meant;
And Silence speaks the willing Maid's Consent.
Now had the wily God's envenom'd Dart
Diffus'd the pleasing Poison to her Heart;
Leander's Form, instilling soft Desire,
Woo'd her pleas'd Eyes, and set her Soul on Fire.
While on the Ground fair Hero fix'd her Sight,
Leander view'd, with exquisite Delight,
Her swelling Breast, and Neck as Ivory white.
At length her Face with lovely Blushes spread
She rais'd, and thus in sweet Confusion said:

“Stranger, thy Words such magic Sounds convey
“With soft Compassion Rocks would melt away.

310

“Who form'd thy Tongue with such persuasive Art
“To pour delightful Ruin on the Heart?
“Ah! tell me, who thus taught thee to explore
“My lone Retirement on the Thracian Shore?
“Thy Speech, tho' pleasing, flow'd to me in vain:
“How can a Stranger Hero's Love obtain?
“Should I in public give to thee my Hand,
“My Parents would forbid the nuptial Band.
“And should'st thou here in close Concealment stay
“Our secret Passion would itself betray;
“For soon the Voice of scandal-spreading Fame
“The Deed of Silence would aloud proclaim.
“But, gentle Youth, thy Name, thy Country tell;
“For mine, alas! by thee are known too well.
“In yon high Tower, which close to Sestos stands,
“And all the roaring Hellespont commands,
“With one attending Damsel I remain;
“For so my Parents and the Fates ordain!
“No Nymphs coæval to sweet Music's Sound
“Lead the smooth Dance, or lightly beat the Ground;

311

“But stormy Winds eternal Discord keep,
“And blustering bellow through the boundless Deep.”

Thus spoke the Priestess, and, with modest Grace
Conceal'd the new-born Beauties of her Face;
For on her Cheeks the roseate Blush that hung
Seem'd to condemn the Language of her Tongue.

Meanwhile Leander feeds the hidden Fire,
Glows in each Vein, and burns with fierce Desire:
But anxious Doubt his musing Breast alarms;
How shall he gain Admittance to her Charms?
Nor long he paus'd, for Love in Wiles abounds,
Well-pleas'd to heal the Bosoms which he wounds:
'Twas he, whose Arrows Men and Gods controul,
That heal'd Leander's love-afflicted Soul;
Who thus, while Sighs upheav'd his anxious Breast,
The Nymph with artful Eloquence addrest:

“For thee, dear Object of my fond Desire,
“I'll cross the Ocean, though it flame with Fire:
“Nor would I fear the Billows loud Alarms,
“While every Billow bore me to thy Arms;

312

“Uncheck'd, undaunted by the boisterous Main,
“Tempestuous Winds should round me roar in vain:
“But oft as Night her sable Pinions spread,
“I through the Storm would swim to Hero's Bed:
“For rich Abydos is the Home I boast,
“Not far divided from the Thracian Coast.
“Let but my Fair a kindly Torch display,
“From the high Turret, to direct my Way;
“Then shall thy daring Swain securely glide,
“The Bark of Cupid, o'er the yielding Tide,
“Thyself my Haven, and thy Torch my Guide:
“And while I view the genial Blaze afar,
“I'll swim regardless of Boötes' Car,
“Of fell Orion, and the Northern Wain
“That never bathes his Brightness in the Main:
“Thy Star, more eminently bright than they,
“Shall lead the Lover to his blissful Bay.
“But let the Torch, O Nymph divinely fair!
“My only Safety, be thy only Care;
“Guard well its Light, when wintry Tempests roar,
“And hoarse Waves break tumultuous on the Shore,

313

“Lest the dire Storms, that blacken all the Sky,
“The Flame extinguish, and the Lover die.
“More would'st thou know? Leander is my Name,
“The happiest Husband of the fairest Dame.”

Thus mutual vow'd the Lovers to employ
The Nights in Raptures of mysterious Joy;
Her Task, secure th'extended Torch to keep,
And his, to cross th'unfathomable Deep:
On promis'd Bliss their fruitful Fancies fed,
Ecstatic Pleasures of the nuptial Bed;
Till the fond Nymph, when Decency requir'd,
Back to her Tower unwillingly retir'd:
Leander, ere he left his lovely Bride,
Mark'd well the Station of the blazing Guide,
Then sought Abydos cross the sounding Tide.

What now but amorous Scenes their Thoughts employ,
Confus'd Ideas of the genial Joy?
Slow rose on leaden Wings the Morning Light,
Slow Noon came on—the Lovers wish'd it Night.
At length dark Gloom a dusky Mantle spread;
Sleep o'er the World his balmy Influence shed.

314

All but Leander lay dissolv'd in Rest,
Love kept a ceaseless Vigil in his Breast.
Silent he wander'd on the winding Shore,
The Deep resounded with tremendous Roar:
Wide o'er the foaming Waves his anxious Sight
Explor'd the Torch's love-proclaiming Light:
He little deem'd, alas! its Flame would prove
The Blaze of Death, tho' meant the Torch of Love.

Soon as fair Hero from her Tower survey'd
Th'Horizon darken'd in the sable Shade,
The Torch on high she fix'd; its Flames inspire
Leander's Bosom with the kindred Fire:
Quick thro' his Frame the bright Contagion ran,
And with the glowing Signal glow'd th'enamour'd Man.
But when he heard the hoarse-resounding Roar
Of thundering Billows breaking on the Shore,
Aghast he stood, he shrunk, and thus addrest
These Words of Courage to his trembling Breast:

“Ah cruel Love! whose Woe the Waves conspire!
“The Waves are Water, but I burn with Fire:

315

“Be bold my Heart, the foaming Billows brave,
“Nor fear the Threatnings of the wintry Wave.
“Fair Venus rose propitious from the Main;
“She calms the Ocean's Rage, and sooths the Lover's Pain.”

He spoke, and strait his lovely Limbs undrest,
And folded round his Head the various Vest;
Then dauntless plunging in the foaming Tide,
Dash'd with his Arms th'intruding Waves aside:
Full in his View he kept the shining Mark,
Himself the Pilot, Passenger, and Bark.
While faithful Hero, to her Promise true,
Watch'd on the Turret every Wind that blew;
Oft with her Robe she screen'd the Torch's Blaze
From dangerous Blasts that blew a thousand Ways:
Till the tir'd Youth, on rolling Surges tost,
Securely landed on the Sestian Coast.
Soon as she saw her Lover safe on Shore,
Eager she ran, and led him to her Tower,
Welcom'd with open Arms her panting Guest,
And, sweetly smiling, to her Bosom prest:

316

Then dumb with Joy the shivering Youth she led,
Still wet and weary, to the genial Bed,
Wip'd his fair Limbs, and fragrant Oyls apply'd,
To cleanse his Body from the oozy Tide;
Then claps'd him close, still panting, to her Breast,
And thus with fond, endearing Words addrest:

“My Life, my Lover, thou hast suffer'd more
“Than fondest Bridegroom e'er endur'd before;
“Destin'd, alas! dread Troubles to sustain
“On the rough Bosom of the briny Main:
“Now let sweet Joy succeed in Sorrow's Place,
“And lull thy Labours in my warm Embrace.”

She spoke: He loos'd her Virgin Zone, to prove
The secret Rites, and Mysteries of Love.

317

No Youths with measur'd Dance the Nuptials crown'd,
Nor tuneful Hymn's congratulating Sound:
No Bard invok'd the heavenly Queen with Prayer,
To smile propitious on the wedded Pair:
No nuptial Torch its golden Lustre shed,
Bright Torch of Love, to grace the bridal Bed!
No Iö Pæans musically rung;
No greeting Parents Hymenæals sung:
But all was Gloom, and Silence all around,
Instead of Music's love-inspiring Sound.
Beneath the Covert of the Night conceal'd,
They tasted Pleasures mutual Faith had seal'd:
In close Embraces all entranc'd they lay,
In Raptures never usher'd to the Day:
Till the fond Youth reluctant left his Bride,
Still breathing Love, and cross'd the foaming Tide.
Thus Hero liv'd unnoted, unbetray'd,
Each Night a Woman, and each Day a Maid.
Both wish'd the Hours on swiftest Wings would fly,
And hail'd the evening, not the morning Sky.

Thus rapt in hidden Joys, each blissful Night
They pass'd in Ecstacies of full Delight:

318

But soon, alas! those dear-bought Pleasures fled,
And short the Transports of that bridal Bed!

For now relentless Winter, that deforms
With Frost the Forest, and the Sea with Storms,
Bade the wild Winds o'er all the Ocean reign,
And raise the rapid Whirlpools of the Main;
The hoarse wild Winds obey, and, with harsh Sound,
Roar o'er the Surface of the vast Profound,
Rouze from their Beds the scatter'd Storms that sleep,
In the dark Caverns of the dreary Deep:
The trembling Sailor hears the dreadful Roar,
Nor dares the wintry Turbulence explore,
But drags his Vessel to the safer Shore.

But thee, bold Youth, no wintry Storms restrain,
Nor all the deathful Dangers of the Main:
For when thou saw'st the Torch's Blaze from far,
(Of nuptial Bliss the bright prophetic Star)
Thee not the furious Tempest could controul,
Nor calm the glowing Raptures of thy Soul.
Yet sure fair Hero, when the gloomy Sky
With gathering Clouds proclaim'd rough Winter nigh,

319

Without her Lover should have pass'd the Night,
Nor from the Tower, ill-omen'd, shown the Light.
But she, ah hapless! burns with fond Desire,
'Tis Love inflames her, while the Fates conspire:
The Torch of Death now glimmer'd from above,
No more the gentle Harbinger of Love.

'Twas Night, and angry Æolus had hurl'd
The Winds tempestuous o'er the watry World;
The bellowing Winds with Rage impetuous roar
And dash the foaming Billows on the Shore:
Ev'n then the Youth, with pleasing Visions fed,
Glows with Remembrance of the bridal Bed;
And, while fierce Tempests howl on every Side,
Floats on the Bosom of the briny Tide.
Waves, roll'd on Waves, in hideous Heaps are driven,
Swell'd into Mountains, and upheav'd to Heaven:
Bleak Blasts, loud-roaring, the vex'd Ocean sweep,
Foam the dash'd Billows, and resounds the Deep.
From every part the blustering Terrors fly,
Rage o'er the Main, and battle in the Sky:
The growling Thunder of the vast Profound
The Rocks rebellow, and the Shores rebound.

320

Amidst the watry War, with Toils oppress'd
O'erwhelm'd with Billows, and in Gulphs distress'd,
Leander oft with suppliant Prayer implor'd
The sea-sprung Goddess, and old Ocean's Lord:
Thee, Boreas, too, he summon'd to his Aid,
Nor was unmindful of th'Athenian Maid:
But Prayers are fruitless, and Petitions vain;
Love must submit to what the Fates ordain.
From Wave to Wave the hapless Youth is tost,
Now heav'd on high, and now in Whirlpools lost.
His weary'd Feet no more his Will obey,
His Arms hang useless, and forget to play.
Borne on the Surge supine, and void of Breath,
He drinks the briny Wave, and draws in Death.
Thus while in fatal Rage each Wind conspires,
Extinct at once the Flame, and Lover's Fires,
Fainting he sinks, and with the Torch expires.

While on the Turret Hero mourn'd his Stay,
And fondly sighing, chid his long Delay,
Perplexing Anguish in her Bosom rose,
Nor knew her Eyes the Blessings of Repose.

Now rose the Morn, in russet Vest array'd,
Still from th'impatient Fair the Lover stay'd:

321

Watchful she stood, and cast her Eyes around
O'er the wide Beach, and o'er the Depths profound,
Haply to spy her Lover, should he stray,
The Light extinguish'd, 'midst the watry Way:
But when she saw him breathless on the Sand,
Stretch'd, ghastly-pale, by Death's relentless Hand,
She shriek'd aloud; and from her throbbing Breast
Rent the gay Honours of her flowery Vest;
Then from the Tower her beauteous Body cast,
And on her Lover's Bosom breath'd her last:
Nor could the Fates this faithful Pair divide;
They liv'd united, and united died.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

THE ODES OF ANACREON.

Translated from the Greek.

ODE I. ON HIS LYRE.

ODE III. CUPID BENIGHTED.

ODE IV. ON HIMSELF.

ODE V. ON THE ROSE.

ODE VI. THE PARTY OF PLEASURE.

ODE VII. THE POWER OF LOVE.

ODE VIII. THE DREAM.

ODE IX. THE DOVE.

ODE X. CUPID IN WAX.

ODE XII. ON A SWALLOW.

ODE XIII. ON ATYS.

ODE XIV. LOVE IRRESISTIBLE.

ODE XVII. THE SILVER BOWL.

ODE XVIII. ON THE SAME.

[Contrive me, Artisan, a Bowl]

ODE XIX. WE OUGHT TO DRINK.

ODE XXI. SUMMER.

ODE XXIII. THE VANITY OF RICHES.

ODE XXIV. ENJOYMENT.

ODE XXV. WINE BANISHES CARES.

ODE XXVI. THE TRANSPORTS OF WINE.

ODE XXVII. THE PRAISE OF BACCHUS.

ODE XXVIII. HIS MISTRESS's PICTURE.

ODE XXIX. BATHYLLUS.

ODE XXX. CUPID TAKEN PRISONER.

ODE XXXI. THE PLEASING FRENZY.

ODE XXXII. THE NUMBER OF HIS MISTRESSES.

ODE XXXIII. THE SWALLOW.

ODE XXXIV. TO HIS MISTRESS.

ODE XXXV. ON THE PICTURE OF EUROPA.

ODE XXXVIII. ON HIMSELF.

ODE XXXIX. ON HIMSELF.

ODE XL. CUPID WOUNDED.

ODE XLI. THE BANQUET OF WINE

ODE XLII. ON HIMSELF.

ODE XLIII. THE GRASHOPPER.

ODE XLIV. THE DREAM.

ODE XLVI. THE POWER OF GOLD.

ODE XLVII. YOUNG OLD-AGE.

ODE LVII. THAT WE SHOULD DRINK WITH MODERATION.

ODE LVIII. THE LOVE-DRAUGHT.

ODE LIX. TO A SCORNFUL BEAUTY.

ODE LX. EPITHALAMIUM ON THE MARRIAGE OF STRATOCLES AND MYRILLA.

ODE LXI. ON GOLD.

ODE LXII. ON THE SPRING.

ODE LXIII. TO CUPID.

ODE LXIV. TO CUPID.

ODE LXV. ON HIMSELF.

ODE LXVII. ON LOVE.

ODE LXVIII. THE SUPPLICATION.

ODE LXIX. ARTEMON.

A Fragment.

ODE LXX. TO HIS BOY.

THE EPIGRAMS OF ANACREON.

EPIGRAM I. ON TIMOCRITUS.

EPIGRAM II. ON AGATHON.

EPIGRAM III. ON THE SON OF CLEËNOR.

EPIGRAM IV. ON A PICTURE REPRESENTING THREE BACCHÆ.

EPIGRAM V. ON MYRON's COW.

EPIGRAM VI. ON THE SAME.

[This Heifer is not cast, but rolling Years]

EPIGRAM VII. ON COMPANY.

EPIGRAM VIII. A DEDICATION TO JUPITER, IN THE NAME OF PHIDOLA.

EPIGRAM IX. TO APOLLO, IN THE NAME OF NAUCRATES.

EPIGRAM X. ANOTHER DEDICATION.

EPIGRAM XI. ANOTHER.

[Minerva's Grove contains the favour'd Shield]

EPIGRAM XII. ANOTHER, BY LEOCRATES.

[When Hermes' Bust, Leocrates, you rais'd]

EPIGRAM XIII. ON THE SON OF ARISTOCLES.

EPIGRAM XIV.

[Praxidice this flowery Mantle made]

EPIGRAM XV. UNDER A STATUE.

EPIGRAM XVI. ANOTHER.

[This Trophy Areiphilus's Son]

EPIGRAM XVII. ANOTHER.

[Thessalia's Monarch, Echecratides]