ODE XXVII.

We read the flying courser's name Upon his side, in marks of flame; And, by their turbaned brows alone, The warriors of the East are known. But in the lover's glowing eyes, The inlet to his bosom lies; Through them we see the small faint mark, Where Love has dropt his burning spark!



ODE XXVIII.

As, by his Lemnian forge's flame, The husband of the Paphian dame Moulded the glowing steel, to form Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm; And Venus, as he plied his art, Shed honey round each new-made dart, While Love, at hand, to finish all, Tipped every arrow's point with gall; It chanced the Lord of Battles came To visit that deep cave of flame. 'Twas from the ranks of war he rushed, His spear with many a life-drop blushed; He saw the fiery darts, and smiled Contemptuous at the archer-child. "What!" said the urchin, "dost thou smile? Here, hold this little dart awhile, And thou wilt find, though swift of flight, My bolts are not so feathery light."

Mars took the shaft—and, oh, thy look, Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took!— Sighing, he felt the urchin's art, And cried, in agony of heart, "It is not light—I sink with pain! Take—take thy arrow back again." "No," said the child, "it must not be; That little dart was made for thee!"



ODE XXIX.

Yes—loving is a painful thrill, And not to love more painful still But oh, it is the worst of pain, To love and not be loved again! Affection now has fled from earth, Nor fire of genius, noble birth, Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile, From beauty's cheek one favoring smile. Gold is the woman's only theme, Gold is the woman's only dream. Oh! never be that wretch forgiven— Forgive him not, indignant heaven! Whose grovelling eyes could first adore, Whose heart could pant for sordid ore. Since that devoted thirst began, Man has forgot to feel for man; The pulse of social life is dead, And all its fonder feelings fled! War too has sullied Nature's charms, For gold provokes the world to arms; And oh! the worst of all its arts, It renders asunder loving hearts.



ODE XXX.[1]

'Twas in a mocking dream of night— I fancied I had wings as light As a young birds, and flew as fleet; While Love, around whose beauteous feet, I knew not why, hung chains of lead, Pursued me, as I trembling fled; And, strange to say, as swift as thought, Spite of my pinions, I was caught! What does the wanton Fancy mean By such a strange, illusive scene? I fear she whispers to my breast, That you, sweet maid, have stolen its rest; That though my fancy, for a while, Hath hung on many a woman's smile, I soon dissolved each passing vow, And ne'er was caught by love till now!

[1] Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet married very late in life. But I see nothing in the ode which alludes to matrimony, except it be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I agree in the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure to marry.



ODE XXXI.[1]

Armed with hyacinthine rod, (Arms enough for such a god,) Cupid bade me wing my pace, And try with him the rapid race. O'er many a torrent, wild and deep, By tangled brake and pendent steep. With weary foot I panting flew, Till my brow dropt with chilly dew. And now my soul, exhausted, dying, To my lip was faintly flying; And now I thought the spark had fled, When Cupid hovered o'er my head, And fanning light his breezy pinion, Rescued my soul from death's dominion;[2] Then said, in accents half-reproving. "Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"

[1] The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love.

[2] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."—LA FOSSE.



ODE XXXII.[1]

Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves, Where lotus with the myrtle weaves; And while in luxury's dream I sink, Let me the balm of Bacchus drink! In this sweet hour of revelry Young Love shall my attendant be— Drest for the task, with tunic round His snowy neck and shoulders bound, Himself shall hover by my side, And minister the racy tide!

Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll, Our life is hurrying to the goal; A scanty dust, to feed the wind, Is all the trace 'twill leave behind. Then wherefore waste the rose's bloom Upon the cold, insensate tomb? Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath, Affect the still, cold sense of death? Oh no; I ask no balm to steep With fragrant tears my bed of sleep: But now, while every pulse is glowing, Now let me breathe the balsam flowing; Now let the rose, with blush of fire, Upon my brow in sweets expire; And bring the nymph whose eye hath power To brighten even death's cold hour. Yes, Cupid! ere my shade retire, To join the blest elysian choir; With wine, and love, and social cheer, I'll make my own elysium here!

[1] We here have the poet, in his true attributes, reclining upon myrtles, with Cupid for his cup-bearer. Some interpreters have ruined the picture by making [Greek: Eros] the name of his slave. None but Love should fill the goblet of Anacreon. Sappho, in one of her fragments, has assigned this office to Venus.

Hither, Venus, queen of kisses. This shall be the night of blisses; This the night, to friendship dear. Thou shalt be our Hebe here. Fill the golden brimmer high, Let it sparkle like thine eye; Bid the rosy current gush. Let it mantle like thy blush. Goddess, hast thou e'er above Seen a feast so rich in love? Not a soul that is not mine! Not a soul that is not thine!



ODE XXXIII.

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole The sullen Bear is seen to roll; And mortals, wearied with the day, Are slumbering all their cares away; An infant, at that dreary hour, Came weeping to my silent bower, And waked me with a piteous prayer, To shield him from the midnight air. "And who art thou," I waking cry, "That bid'st my blissful visions fly?" "Ah, gentle sire!" the infant said, "In pity take me to thy shed; Nor fear deceit; a lonely child I wander o'er the gloomy wild. Chill drops the rain, and not a ray Illumes the drear and misty way!"

I heard the baby's tale of woe: I heard the bitter night-winds blow; And sighing for his piteous fate, I trimmed my lamp and oped the gate. 'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite, His pinion sparkled through the night, I knew him by his bow and dart; I knew him by my fluttering heart. Fondly I take him in, and raise The dying embers' cheering blaze; Press from his dank and clinging hair The crystals of the freezing air, And in my hand and bosom hold His little fingers thrilling cold.

And now the embers' genial ray, Had warmed his anxious fears away; "I pray thee," said the wanton child, (My bosom trembled as he smiled,) "I pray thee let me try my bow, For through the rain I've wandered so, That much I fear the midnight shower Has injured its elastic power." The fatal bow the urchin drew; Swift from the string the arrow flew; As swiftly flew as glancing flame, And to my inmost spirit came! "Fare thee well," I heard him say As laughing wild he winged away, "Fare thee well, for now I know The rain has not relaxt my bow; It still can send a thrilling dart, As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"



ODE XXXIV.[1]

Oh thou, of all creation blest, Sweet insect, that delight'st to rest Upon the wild wood's leafy tops, To drink the dew that morning drops, And chirp thy song with such a glee, That happiest kings may envy thee. Whatever decks the velvet field, Whate'er the circling seasons yield, Whatever buds, whatever blows, For thee it buds, for thee it grows. Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear, To him thy friendly notes are dear; For thou art mild as matin dew; And still, when summer's flowery hue Begins to paint the bloomy plain, We hear thy sweet prophetic strain; Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear, And bless the notes and thee revere! The Muses love thy shrilly tone; Apollo calls thee all his own; 'Twas he who gave that voice to thee, 'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.

Unworn by age's dim decline, The fadeless blooms of youth are thine. Melodious insect, child of earth, In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth; Exempt from every weak decay, That withers vulgar frames away; With not a drop of blood to stain, The current of thy purer vein; So blest an age is past by thee, Thou seem'st—a little deity!

[1] In a Latin ode addressed to the grasshopper, Rapin has preserved some of the thoughts of our author:—

Oh thou, that on the grassy bed Which Nature's vernal hand has spread, Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song, The dewy herbs and leaves among! Whether thou lyest on springing flowers Drunk with the balmy morning-showers Or, etc.



ODE XXXV.[1]

Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee; The bee awaked—with anger wild The bee awaked, and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies; "Oh mother!—I am wounded through— I die with pain—in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing— A bee it was—for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so." Thus he spoke, and she the while, Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, "My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid be, The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"

[1] Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyl; but is very inferior, I think, to his original, in delicacy of point and naivete of expression. Spenser, in one of his smaller compositions, has sported more diffusely on the same subject. The poem to which I allude begins thus:—

Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbering All in his mother's lap; A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring, About him flew by hap, etc.



ODE XXXVI.[1]

If hoarded gold possest the power To lengthen life's too fleeting hour, And purchase from the hand of death A little span, a moment's breath, How I would love the precious ore! And every hour should swell my store; That when death came, with shadowy pinion, To waft me to his bleak dominion, I might, by bribes, my doom delay, And bid him call some distant day. But, since not all earth's golden store Can buy for us one bright hour more, Why should we vainly mourn our fate, Or sigh at life's uncertain date? Nor wealth nor grandeur can illume The silent midnight of the tomb. No—give to others hoarded treasures— Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures— The goblet rich, the board of friends, Whose social souls the goblet blends;[2] And mine, while yet I've life to live, Those joys that love alone can give.

[1] Fontenelle has translated this ode, in his dialogue between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, where, on weighing the merits of both these personages, he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet.

[2] The goblet rich, the board of friends. Whose social soul the goblet blends.

This communion Of friendship, which sweetened the bowl of Anacreon, has not been forgotten by the author of the following scholium, where the blessings of life are enumerated with proverbial simplicity:

Of mortal blessing here the first is health, And next those charms by which the eye we move; The third is wealth, unwounding guiltless wealth, And then, sweet intercourse with those we love!



ODE XXXVII.

'Twas night, and many a circling bowl Had deeply warmed my thirsty soul; As lulled in slumber I was laid, Bright visions o'er my fancy played. With maidens, blooming as the dawn, I seemed to skim the opening lawn; Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew, We flew, and sported as we flew!

Some ruddy striplings, who lookt on— With cheeks that like the wine-god's shone, Saw me chasing, free and wild, These blooming maids, and slyly smiled; Smiled indeed with wanton glee, Though none could doubt they envied me. And still I flew—and now had caught The panting nymphs, and fondly thought To gather from each rosy lip A kiss that Jove himself might sip— When sudden all my dream of joys, Blushing nymphs and laughing boys, All were gone!—"Alas!" I said, Sighing for the illusion fled, "Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore, Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"[1]

[1] Dr. Johnson, in his preface to Shakespeare, animadverting upon the commentators of that poet, who pretended, in every little coincidence of thought, to detect an imitation of some ancient poet, alludes in the following words to the line of Anacreon before us: "I have been told that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream says, 'I cried to sleep again,' the author imitates Anacreon, who had, like any other man, the same wish on the same occasion."



ODE XXXVIII.

Let us drain the nectared bowl, Let us raise the song of soul To him, the god who loves so well The nectared bowl, the choral swell; The god who taught the sons of earth To thread the tangled dance of mirth; Him, who was nurst with infant Love, And cradled in the Paphian grove; Him, that the Snowy Queen of Charms So oft has fondled in her arms. Oh 'tis from him the transport flows, Which sweet intoxication knows; With him, the brow forgets its gloom, And brilliant graces learn to bloom.

Behold!—my boys a goblet bear, Whose sparkling foam lights up the air. Where are now the tear, the sigh? To the winds they fly, they fly! Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking, Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking! Say, can the tears we lend to thought In life's account avail us aught? Can we discern with all our lore, The path we've yet to journey o'er? Alas, alas, in ways so dark, 'Tis only wine can strike a spark!

Then let me quaff the foamy tide, And through the dance meandering glide; Let me imbibe the spicy breath Of odors chafed to fragrant death; Or from the lips of love inhale A more ambrosial, richer gale! To hearts that court the phantom Care, Let him retire and shroud him there; While we exhaust the nectared bowl, And swell the choral song of soul To him, the god who loves so well The nectared bowl, the choral swell!



ODE XXXIX.

How I love the festive boy, Tripping through the dance of joy! How I love the mellow sage, Smiling through the veil of age! And whene'er this man of years In the dance of joy appears, Snows may o'er his head be flung, But his heart—his heart is young.



ODE XL.

I know that Heaven hath sent me here, To run this mortal life's career; The scenes which I have journeyed o'er, Return no more—alas! no more! And all the path I've yet to go, I neither know nor ask to know. Away, then, wizard Care, nor think Thy fetters round this soul to link; Never can heart that feels with me Descend to be a slave to thee! And oh! before the vital thrill, Which trembles at my heart is still, I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers, And gild with bliss my fading hours; Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom, And Venus dance me to the tomb!



ODE XLI.

When Spring adorns the dewy scene, How sweet to walk the velvet green, And hear the west wind's gentle sighs, As o'er the scented mead it flies! How sweet to mark the pouting vine, Ready to burst in tears of wine; And with some maid, who breathes but love, To walk, at noontide, through the grove, Or sit in some cool, green recess— Oh, is this not true happiness?



ODE XLII.[1]

Yes, be the glorious revel mine, Where humor sparkles from the wine. Around me, let the youthful choir Respond to my enlivening lyre; And while the red cup foams along, Mingle in soul as well as song. Then, while I sit, with flowerets crowned, To regulate the goblets round. Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride, Be seated smiling by my side, And earth has not a gift or power That I would envy, in that hour. Envy!—oh never let its blight Touch the gay hearts met here tonight. Far hence be slander's sidelong wounds, Nor harsh dispute, nor discord's sounds Disturb a scene, where all should be Attuned to peace and harmony.

Come, let us hear the harp's gay note Upon the breeze inspiring float, While round us, kindling into love, Young maidens through the light dance move. Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace, Sure such a life should never cease!

[1] The character of Anacreon is here very strikingly depicted. His love of social, harmonized pleasures, is expressed with a warmth, amiable and endearing.



ODE XLIII.

While our rosy fillets shed Freshness o'er each fervid head, With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile. And while the harp, impassioned flings Tuneful rapture from its strings,[1] Some airy nymph, with graceful bound, Keeps measure to the music's sound; Waving, in her snowy hand, The leafy Bacchanalian wand, Which, as the tripping wanton flies, Trembles all over to her sighs. A youth the while, with loosened hair, Floating on the listless air, Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone, A tale of woe, alas, his own; And oh, the sadness in his sigh. As o'er his lips the accents die! Never sure on earth has been Half so bright, so blest a scene. It seems as Love himself had come To make this spot his chosen home;—[2] And Venus, too, with all her wiles, And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, All, all are here, to hail with me The Genius of Festivity!

[1] Respecting the barbiton a host of authorities may be collected, which, after all, leave us ignorant of the nature of the instrument. There is scarcely any point upon which we are so totally uninformed as the music of the ancients. The authors extant upon the subject are, I imagine, little understood; and certainly if one of their moods was a progression by quarter-tones, which we are told was the nature of the enharmonic scale, simplicity was by no means the characteristic of their melody; for this is a nicety of progression of which modern music is not susceptible. The invention of the barbiton is, by Athenaeus, attributed to Anacreon.

[2] The introduction of these deities to the festival is merely allegorical. Madame Dacier thinks that the poet describes a masquerade, where these deities were personated by the company in masks. The translation will conform with either idea.



ODE XLIV.[1]

Buds of roses, virgin flowers, Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers, In the bowl of Bacchus steep, Till with crimson drops they weep. Twine the rose, the garland twine, Every leaf distilling wine; Drink and smile, and learn to think That we were born to smile and drink. Rose, thou art the sweetest flower That ever drank the amber shower; Rose, thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild. Even the Gods, who walk the sky, Are amorous of thy scented sigh. Cupid, too, in Paphian shades, His hair with rosy fillets braids, When with the blushing sister Graces, The wanton winding dance he traces. Then bring me, showers of roses bring, And shed them o'er me while I sing. Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine, Wreathing my brow with rose and vine, I lead some bright nymph through the dance, Commingling soul with every glance!

[1] This spirited poem is a eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty- fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes refers us, the rose is fancifully styled "the eye of flowers;" and the same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favors of the Muse "the roses of the Pleria."



ODE XLV.

Within this goblet, rich and deep, I cradle all my woes to sleep. Why should we breathe the sigh of fear, Or pour the unavailing tear? For death will never heed the sigh, Nor soften at the tearful eye; And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep, Must all alike be sealed in sleep. Then let us never vainly stray, In search of thorns, from pleasure's way; But wisely quaff the rosy wave, Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave; And in the goblet, rich and deep, Cradle our crying woes to sleep.



ODE XLVI.[1]

Behold, the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her scented wing: While virgin Graces, warm with May; Fling roses o'er her dewy way. The murmuring billows of the deep Have languished into silent sleep; And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave Their plumes in the reflecting wave; While cranes from hoary winter fly To flutter in a kinder sky. Now the genial star of day Dissolves the murky clouds away; And cultured field, and winding stream, Are freshly glittering in his beam.

Now the earth prolific swells With leafy buds and flowery bells; Gemming shoots the olive twine, Clusters ripe festoon the vine; All along the branches creeping, Through the velvet foliage peeping, Little infant fruits we see, Nursing into luxury.

[1] The fastidious affectation of some commentators has denounced this ode as spurious. Degen pronounces the four last lines to be the patch-work of some miserable versificator, and Brunck condemns the whole ode. It appears to me, on the contrary, to be elegantly graphical: full of delicate expressions and luxuriant imagery.



ODE XLVII.

'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet can I quaff the brimming wine, As deep as any stripling fair, Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear; And if, amidst the wanton crew, I'm called to wind the dance's clue, Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand, Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand, But brandishing a rosy flask, The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask![1]

Let those, who pant for Glory's charms, Embrace her in the field of arms; While my inglorious, placid soul Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl. Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, And bathe me in its brimming wave. For though my fading years decay, Though manhood's prime hath past away, Like old Silenus, sire divine, With blushes borrowed from my wine. I'll wanton mid the dancing train, And live my follies o'er again!

[1] Phornutus assigns as a reason for the consecration of the thyrsus to Bacchus, that inebriety often renders the support of a stick very necessary.



ODE XLVIII.

When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lulled to sleep. Talk of monarchs! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men; Careless o'er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king; Gives me wealthy Croesus' store, Can I, can I wish for more? On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining,[1] While my soul expands with glee, What are kings and crowns to me? If before my feet they lay, I would spurn them all away; Arm ye, arm ye, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight; But let me, my budding vine! Spill no other blood than thine. Yonder brimming goblet see, That alone shall vanquish me— Who think it better, wiser far To fall in banquet than in war,

[1] "The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus [says Montfaucon], because he formerly lay hid under that tree, or as others will have it, because its leaves resemble those of the vine." Other reasons for its consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, Barnes, etc.



ODE XLIX.

When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy, The rosy harbinger of joy, Who, with the sunshine of the bowl, Thaws the winter of our soul— When to my inmost core he glides, And bathes it with his ruby tides, A flow of joy, a lively heat, Fires my brain, and wings my feet, Calling up round me visions known To lovers of the bowl alone.

Sing, sing of love, let music's sound In melting cadence float around, While, my young Venus, thou and I Responsive to its murmurs sigh. Then, waking from our blissful trance, Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.



ODE L.[1]

When wine I quaff, before my eyes Dreams of poetic glory rise;[2] And freshened by the goblet's dews, My soul invokes the heavenly Muse, When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er; I think of doubts and fears no more; But scatter to the railing wind Each gloomy phantom of the mind. When I drink wine, the ethereal boy, Bacchus himself, partakes my joy; And while we dance through vernal bowers, Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers, In wine he makes my senses swim, Till the gale breathes of naught but him!

Again I drink,—and, lo, there seems A calmer light to fill my dreams; The lately ruffled wreath I spread With steadier hand around my head; Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest The life of him who lives at rest!" But then comes witching wine again, With glorious woman in its train; And, while rich perfumes round me rise, That seem the breath of woman's sighs, Bright shapes, of every hue and form. Upon my kindling fancy swarm, Till the whole world of beauty seems To crowd into my dazzled dreams! When thus I drink, my heart refines, And rises as the cup declines; Rises in the genial flow, That none but social spirits know, When, with young revellers, round the bowl, The old themselves grow young in soul! Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine, There's bliss in every drop of wine. All other blessings I have known, I scarcely dared to call my own; But this the Fates can ne'er destroy, Till death o'ershadows all my joy.

[1] Faber thinks this ode spurious; but, I believe, he is singular in his opinion. It has all the spirit of our author. Like the wreath which he presented in the dream, "it smells of Anacreon."

[2] Anacreon is not the only one [says Longepierre] whom wine has inspired with poetry. We find an epigram in the first book of the "Anthologia," which begins thus:—

If with water you fill up your glasses, You'll never write anything wise; For wine's the true horse of Parnassus. Which carries a bard to the skies!



ODE LI.

Fly not thus my brow of snow, Lovely wanton! fly not so. Though the wane of age is mine, Though youth's brilliant flush be thine, Still I'm doomed to sigh for thee, Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me! See, in yonder flowery braid, Culled for thee, my blushing maid,[1] How the rose, of orient glow, Mingles with the lily's snow; Mark, how sweet their tints agree, Just, my girl, like thee and me!

[1] In the same manner that Anacreon pleads for the whiteness of his locks, from the beauty of the color in garlands, a shepherd, in Theocritus, endeavors to recommend his black hair.



ODE LII.[1]

Away, away, ye men of rules, What have I do with schools? They'd make me learn, they'd make me think, But would they make me love and drink? Teach me this, and let me swim My soul upon the goblet's brim; Teach me this, and let me twine Some fond, responsive heart to mine, For, age begins to blanch my brow, I've time for naught but pleasure now.

Fly, and cool, my goblet's glow At yonder fountain's gelid flow; I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink This soul to slumber as I drink. Soon, too soon, my jocund slave, You'll deck your master's grassy grave; And there's an end—for ah, you know They drink but little wine below!

[1] "This is doubtless the work of a more modern poet than Anacreon; for at the period when he lived rhetoricians were not known."—DEGEN.

Though this ode is found in the Vatican manuscript, I am much inclined to agree in this argument against its authenticity: for though the dawnings of the art of rhetoric might already have appeared, the first who gave it any celebrity was. Corax of Syracuse, and he flourished in the century after Anacreon.



ODE LIII.

When I behold the festive train Of dancing youth, I'm young again! Memory wakes her magic trance, And wings me lightly through the dance. Come, Cybeba, smiling maid! Cull the flower and twine the braid; Bid the blush of summer's rose Burn upon my forehead's snows; And let me, while the wild and young Trip the mazy dance along, Fling my heap of years away, And be as wild, as young as they. Hither haste, some cordial, soul! Help to my lips the brimming bowl; And you shall see this hoary sage Forget at once his locks and age. He still can chant the festive hymn, He still can kiss the goblet's brim;[1] As deeply quaff, as largely fill, And play the fool right nobly still.

[1] Wine is prescribed by Galen, as an excellent medicine for old men: "Quod frigidos et humbribus expletos calefaciut," etc.; but Nature was Anacreon's physician.

There is a proverb in Eriphus, as quoted by Athenaeus, which says, "that wine makes an old man dance, whether he will or not."



ODE. LIV.[1]

Methinks, the pictured bull we see Is amorous Jove—it must be he! How fondly blest he seems to bear That fairest of Phoenician fair! How proud he breasts the foamy tide, And spurns the billowy surge aside! Could any beast of vulgar vein, Undaunted thus defy the main? No: he descends from climes above, He looks the God, he breathes of Jove!

[1] "This ode is written upon., a picture which represented the rape, of Europa."—MADAME DACIER.

It may probably have been a description of one of those coins, which the Sidonians struck off in honor of Europa, representing a woman carried across the sea by a bull. In the little treatise upon the goddess of Syria, attributed very' falsely to Lucian, there is mention of this coin, and of a temple dedicated by the Sidonians to Astarte, whom some, it appears, confounded with Europa.



ODE LV.[1]

While we invoke the wreathed spring, Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing; Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers, Whose breath perfumes the Olympian bowers; Whose virgin blush, of chastened dye, Enchants so much our mortal eye. When pleasure's spring-tide season glows. The Graces love to wreathe the rose; And Venus, in its fresh-blown leaves, An emblem of herself perceives. Oft hath the poet's magic tongue The rose's fair luxuriance sung; And long the Muses, heavenly maids, Have reared it in their tuneful shades. When, at the early glance of morn, It sleeps upon the glittering thorn, 'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence To cull the timid floweret thence, And wipe with tender hand away The tear that on its blushes lay! 'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems, Yet dropping with Aurora's gems, And fresh inhale the spicy sighs That from the weeping buds arise.

When revel reigns, when mirth is high, And Bacchus beams in every eye, Our rosy fillets scent exhale, And fill with balm the fainting gale. There's naught in nature bright or gay, Where roses do not shed their ray. When morning paints the orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes;[2] Young nymphs betray; the Rose's hue, O'er whitest arms it kindles thro'. In Cytherea's form it glows, And mingles with the living snows.

The rose distils a healing balm, The beating pulse of pain to calm; Preserves the cold inurned clay,[3] And mocks the vestige of decay: And when, at length, in pale decline, Its florid beauties fade and pine, Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath Diffuses odor even in death! Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung? Listen,—for thus the tale is sung. When, humid, from the silvery stream, Effusing beauty's warmest beam, Venus appeared, in flushing hues, Mellowed by ocean's briny dews; When, in the starry courts above, The pregnant brain of mighty Jove Disclosed the nymph of azure glance, The nymph who shakes the martial lance;— Then, then, in strange eventful hour, The earth produced an infant flower, Which sprung, in blushing glories drest. And wantoned o'er its parent breast. The gods beheld this brilliant birth, And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth! With nectar drops, a ruby tide, The sweetly orient buds they dyed,[4] And bade them bloom, the flowers divine Of him who gave the glorious vine; And bade them on the spangled thorn Expand their bosoms to the morn.

[1] This ode is a brilliant panegyric on the rose. "All antiquity [says Barnes] has produced nothing more beautiful."

From the idea of peculiar excellence, which the ancients attached to this flower, arose a pretty proverbial expression, used by Aristophanes, according to Suidas "You have spoken roses."

[2] In the original here, he enumerates the many epithets of beauty, borrowed from roses, which were used by the poets. We see that poets were dignified in Greece with the title of sages: even the careless Anacreon, who lived but for love and voluptuousness, was called by Plato the wise Anacreon—fuit haec sapienta quondam.

[3] He here alludes to the use of the rose in embalming; and, perhaps (as Barnes thinks), to the rosy unguent with which Venus anointed the corpse of Hector.

[4] The author of the "Pervigilium Veneris" (a poem attributed to Catullus, the style of which appears to me to have all the labored luxuriance of a much later period) ascribes the tincture of the rose to the blood from the wound of Adonis.



ODE LVI.

He, who instructs the youthful crew To bathe them in the brimmer's dew, And taste, uncloyed by rich excesses, All the bliss that wine possesses; He, who inspires the youth to bound Elastic through the dance's round,— Bacchus, the god again is here, And leads along the blushing year; The blushing year with vintage teems, Ready to shed those cordial streams, Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth, Illuminate the sons of earth![1]

Then, when the ripe and vermil wine,— Blest infant of the pregnant vine, Which now in mellow clusters swells,— Oh! when it bursts its roseate cells, Brightly the joyous stream shall flow, To balsam every mortal woe! None shall be then cast down or weak, For health and joy shall light each cheek; No heart will then desponding sigh, For wine shall bid despondence fly. Thus—till another autumn's glow Shall bid another vintage flow.

[1] Madame Dacier thinks that the poet here had the nepenthe of Homer in his mind. Odyssey, lib. iv. This nepenthe was a something of exquisite charm, infused by Helen into the wine of her guests, which had the power of dispelling every anxiety. A French writer, De Mere, conjectures that this spell, which made the bowl so beguiling, was the charm of Helen's conversation. See Bayle, art. Helene.



ODE LVII[1]

Whose was the artist hand that spread Upon this disk the ocean's bed? And, in a flight of fancy, high As aught on earthly wing can fly, Depicted thus, in semblance warm, The Queen of Love's voluptuous form Floating along the silvery sea In beauty's naked majesty! Oh! he hath given the enamoured sight A witching banquet of delight, Where, gleaming through the waters clear, Glimpses of undreamt charms appear, And all that mystery loves to screen, Fancy, like Faith, adores unseen.[2]

Light as a leaf, that on the breeze Of summer skims the glassy seas, She floats along the ocean's breast, Which undulates in sleepy rest; While stealing on, she gently pillows Her bosom on the heaving billows. Her bosom, like the dew-washed rose, Her neck, like April's sparkling snows, Illume the liquid path she traces, And burn within the stream's embraces. Thus on she moves, in languid pride, Encircled by the azure tide, As some fair lily o'er a bed Of violets bends its graceful head.

Beneath their queen's inspiring glance, The dolphins o'er the green sea dance, Bearing in triumph young Desire, And infant Love with smiles of fire! While, glittering through the silver waves, The tenants of the briny caves Around the pomp their gambols play, And gleam along the watery way.

[1] This ode is a very animated description of a picture of Venus on a discus, which represented the goddess in her first emergence from the waves. About two centuries after our poet wrote, the pencil of the artist Apelles embellished this subject, in his famous painting of the Venus Anadyomene, the model of which, as Pliny informs us, was the beautiful Campaspe, given to him by Alexander; though, according to Natalis Comes, lib. vii. cap. 16., it was Phryne who sat to Apelles for the face and breast of this Venus.

[2] The picture here has all the delicate character of the semi-reducta Venus, and affords a happy specimen of what the poetry of passion ought to be—glowing but through a veil, and stealing upon the heart from concealment. Few of the ancients have attained this modesty of description, which, like the golden cloud that hung over Jupiter and Juno, is impervious to every beam but that of fancy.



ODE LVIII.

When Gold, as fleet as zephyr's' pinion, Escapes like any faithless minion,[1] And flies me (as he flies me ever),[2] Do I pursue him? never, never! No, let the false deserter go, For who would court his direst foe? But when I feel my lightened mind No more by grovelling gold confined, Then loose I all such clinging cares, And cast them to the vagrant airs. Then feel I, too, the Muse's spell, And wake to life the dulcet shell, Which, roused once more, to beauty sings, While love dissolves along the strings!

But, scarcely has my heart been taught How little Gold deserves a thought, When, lo! the slave returns once more, And with him wafts delicious store Of racy wine, whose genial art In slumber seals the anxious heart. Again he tries my soul to sever From love and song, perhaps forever!

Away, deceiver! why pursuing Ceaseless thus my heart's undoing? Sweet is the song of amorous fire. Sweet the sighs that thrill the lyre; Oh! sweeter far than all the gold Thy wings can waft, thy mines can hold. Well do I know thy arts, thy wiles— They withered Love's young wreathed smiles; And o'er his lyre such darkness shed, I thought its soul of song was fled! They dashed the wine-cup, that, by him, Was filled with kisses to the brim.[3] Go—fly to haunts of sordid men, But come not near the bard again. Thy glitter in the Muse's shade, Scares from her bower the tuneful maid; And not for worlds would I forego That moment of poetic glow, When my full soul, in Fancy's stream, Pours o'er the lyre, its swelling theme. Away, away! to worldlings hence, Who feel not this diviner sense; Give gold to those who love that pest,— But leave the poet poor and blest.

[1] There is a kind of pun in these words, as Madame Dacier has already remarked; for Chrysos, which signifies gold, was also a frequent name for a slave. In one of Lucian's dialogues, there is, I think, a similar play upon the word, where the followers of Chrysippus are called golden fishes. The puns of the ancients are, in general, even more vapid than our own; some of the best are those recorded of Diogenes.

[2] This grace of iteration has already been taken notice of. Though sometimes merely a playful beauty, it is peculiarly expressive of impassioned sentiment, and we may easily believe that it was one of the many sources of that energetic sensibility which breathed through the style of Sappho.

[3] Horace has Desiderique temperare poculum, not figuratively, however, like Anacreon, but importng the love-philtres of the witches. By "cups of kisses" our poet may allude to a favorite gallantry among the ancients, of drinking when the lips of their mistresses had touched the brim;—

"Or leave a kiss within the cup And I'll not ask for wine."

As In Ben Jonson's translation from Philostratus; and Lucian has a conceit upon the same idea, "that you may at once both drink and kiss."



ODE LIX.

Ripened by the solar beam, Now the ruddy clusters teem, In osier baskets borne along By all the festal vintage throng Of rosy youths and virgins fair, Ripe as the melting fruits they bear. Now, now they press the pregnant grapes, And now the captive stream escapes, In fervid tide of nectar gushing. And for its bondage proudly blushing While, round the vat's impurpled brim, The choral song, the vintage hymn Of rosy youths and virgins fair, Steals on the charmed and echoing air. Mark, how they drink, with all their eyes, The orient tide that sparkling flies, The infant Bacchus, born in mirth, While Love stands by, to hail the birth.

When he, whose verging years decline As deep into the vale as mine, When he inhales the vintage-cup, His feet, new-winged, from earth spring up, And as he dances, the fresh air Plays whispering through his silvery hair. Meanwhile young groups whom love invites, To joys even rivalling wine's delights, Seek, arm in arm, the shadowy grove, And there, in words and looks of love, Such as fond lovers look and say, Pass the sweet moonlight hours away.



ODE LX.[1]

Awake to life, my sleeping shell, To Phoebus let thy numbers swell; And though no glorious prize be thine, No Pythian wreath around thee twine, Yet every hour is glory's hour To him who gathers wisdom's flower. Then wake thee from thy voiceless slumbers, And to the soft and Phrygian numbers, Which, tremblingly, my lips repeat, Send echoes, from thy chord as sweet. 'Tis thus the swan, with fading notes, Down the Cayster's current floats, While amorous breezes linger round, And sigh responsive sound for sound.

Muse of the Lyre! illume my dream, Thy Phoebus is my fancy's theme; And hallowed is the harp I bear, And hallowed is the wreath I wear, Hallowed by him, the god of lays, Who modulates the choral maze. I sing the love which Daphne twined Around the godhead's yielding mind; I sing the blushing Daphne's flight From this ethereal son of Light; And how the tender, timid maid Flew trembling to the kindly shade. Resigned a form, alas, too fair, Arid grew a verdant laurel there; Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill, In terror seemed to tremble still! The god pursued, with winged desire; And when his hopes were all on fire, And when to clasp the nymph he thought, A lifeless tree was all he caught; And 'stead of sighs that pleasure heaves, Heard but the west-wind in the leaves!

But, pause, my soul, no more, no more— Enthusiast, whither do I soar? This sweetly-maddening dream of soul Hath hurried me beyond the goal. Why should I sing the mighty darts Which fly to wound celestial hearts, When ah, the song, with sweeter tone, Can tell the darts that wound my own? Still be Anacreon, still inspire The descant of the Teian lyre: Still let the nectared numbers float Distilling love in every note! And when some youth, whose glowing soul Has felt the Paphian star's control, When he the liquid lays shall hear, His heart will flutter to his ear, And drinking there of song divine, Banquet on intellectual wine![2]

[1] This hymn to Apollo is supposed not to have been written by Anacreon; and it is undoubtedly rather a sublimer flight than the Teian wing is accustomed to soar. But in a poet of whose works so small a proportion has reached us, diversity of style is by no means a safe criterion. If we knew Horace but as a satirist, should we easily believe there could dwell such animation in his lyre? Suidas says that our poet wrote hymns, and this perhaps is one of them. We can perceive in what an altered and imperfect state his works are at present, when we find a scholiast upon Horace citing an ode from the third book of Anacreon.

[2] Here ends the last of the odes in the Vatican MS., whose authority helps to confirm the genuine antiquity of them all, though a few have stolen among the number, which we may hesitate in attributing to Anacreon.



ODE LXI.[1]

Youth's endearing charms are fled; Hoary locks deform my head; Bloomy graces, dalliance gay, All the flowers of life decay.[2] Withering age begins to trace Sad memorials o'er my face; Time has shed its sweetest bloom All the future must be gloom. This it is that sets me sighing; Dreary is the thought of dying![3] Lone and dismal is the road, Down to Pluto's dark abode; And, when once the journey's o'er, Ah! we can return no more!

[1] The intrusion of this melancholy ode, among the careless levities of our poet, reminds us of the skeletons which the Egyptians used to hang up in the banquet-rooms, to inculcate a thought of mortality even amidst the dissipations of mirth. If it were not for the beauty of its numbers, the Teian Muse should disown this ode.

[2] Horace often, with feeling and elegance, deplores the fugacity of human enjoyments.

[3] Regnier, a libertine French poet, has written some sonnets on the approach of death, full of gloomy and trembling repentance. Chaulieu, however, supports more consistently the spirit of the Epicurean philosopher. See his poem, addressed to the Marquis de Lafare.



ODE LXII.[1]

Fill me, boy, as deep a draught, As e'er was filled, as e'er was quaffed; But let the water amply flow, To cool the grape's intemperate glow;[2] Let not the fiery god be single, But with the nymphs in union mingle. For though the bowl's the grave of sadness, Ne'er let it be the birth of madness. No, banish from our board tonight The revelries of rude delight; To Scythians leave these wild excesses, Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses! And while the temperate bowl we wreathe, In concert let our voices breathe, Beguiling every hour along With harmony of soul and song.

[1] This ode consists of two fragments, which are to be found in Athenaeus, book x., and which Barnes, from the similarity of their tendency, has combined into one. I think this a very justifiable liberty, and have adopted it in some other fragments of our poet.

[2] It was Amphictyon who first taught the Greeks to mix water with their wine; in commemoration of which circumstance they erected altars to Bacchus and the nymphs.



ODE LXIII.[1]

To Love, the soft and blooming child, I touch the harp in descant wild; To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers, The boy, who breathes and blushes flowers; To Love, for heaven and earth adore him, And gods and mortals bow before him!

[1] "This fragment is preserved in Clemens Alexandrinus, Storm, lib. vi. and In Arsenius, Collect. Graec."—BARNES.

It appears to have been the opening of a hymn in praise of Love.



ODE LXIV.[1]

Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aimed spear Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer! Dian, Jove's immortal child, Huntress of the savage wild! Goddess with the sun-bright hair! Listen to a people's prayer. Turn, to Lethe's river turn, There thy vanquished people mourn![2] Come to Lethe's wavy shore, Tell them they shall mourn no more. Thine their hearts, their altars thine; Must they, Dian—must they pine?

[1] This hymn to Diana is extant in Hephaestion. There is an anecdote of our poet, which has led some to doubt whether he ever wrote any odes of this kind. It is related by the Scholiast upon Pindar (Isthmionic. od. ii. v. 1. as cited by Barnes) that Anaecreon being asked why he addressed all his hymns to women, and none to the deities? answered, "Because women are my deities."

I have assumed, it will be seen, in reporting this anecdote, the same liberty which I have thought it right to take in translating some of the odes; and it were to be wished that these little infidelities were always allowable in interpreting the writings of the ancients.

[2] Lethe, a river of Iona, according to Strabo, falling into the Meander. In its neighborhood was the city called Magnesia, in favor of whose inhabitants our poet is supposed to have addressed this supplication to Diana. It was written (as Madame Dacier conjectures) on the occasion of some battle, in which the Magnesians had been defeated.



ODE LXV.[1]

Like some wanton filly sporting, Maid Of Thrace, thou flyest my courting. Wanton filly! tell me why Thou trip'st away, with scornful eye, And seem'st to think my doating heart Is novice in the bridling art? Believe me, girl, it is not so; Thou'lt find this skilful hand can throw The reins around that tender form, However wild, however warm. Yes—trust me I can tame thy force, And turn and wind thee in the course. Though, wasting now thy careless hours, Thou sport amid the herbs and flowers, Soon shalt thou feel the rein's control, And tremble at the wished-for goal!

[1] This ode, which is addressed to some Thracian girl, exists in Heraclides, and has been imitated very frequently by Horace, as all the annotators have remarked. Madame Dacier rejects the allegory, which runs so obviously through the poem, and supposes it to have been addressed to a young mare belonging to Polycrates.

Pierius, in the fourth book of his "Hieroglyphics," cites this ode, and informs us that the horse was the hieroglyphical emblem of pride.



ODE LXVI.[1]

To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine, Fairest of all that fairest shine; To thee, who rulest with darts of fire This world of mortals, young Desire! And oh! thou nuptial Power, to thee Who bearest of life the guardian key, Breathing my soul in fervent praise, And weaving wild my votive lays, For thee, O Queen! I wake the lyre, For thee, thou blushing young Desire, And oh! for thee, thou nuptial Power, Come, and illume this genial hour.

Look on thy bride, too happy boy, And while thy lambent glance of joy Plays over all her blushing charms, Delay not, snatch her to thine arms, Before the lovely, trembling prey, Like a young birdling, wing away! Turn, Stratocles, too happy youth, Dear to the Queen of amorous truth, And dear to her, whose yielding zone Will soon resign her all thine own. Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye, Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh. To those bewitching beauties turn; For thee they blush, for thee they burn.

Not more the rose, the queen of flowers, Outblushes all the bloom of bowers Than she unrivalled grace discloses, The sweetest rose, where all are roses. Oh! may the sun, benignant, shed His blandest influence o'er thy bed; And foster there an infant tree, To bloom like her, and tower like thee!

[1] This ode is introduced in the Romance of Theodorus Prodromus, and is that kind of epithalamium which was sung like a scolium at the nuptial banquet.



ODE LXVII.

Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn The wealth of Amalthea's horn; Nor should I ask to call the throne Of the Tartessian prince my own;[1] To totter through his train of years, The victim of declining fears. One little hour of joy to me Is worth a dull eternity!

[1] He here alludes to Arganthonius, who lived, according to Lucian, an hundred and fifty years; and reigned, according to Herodotus, eighty.



ODE LXVIII.

Now Neptune's month our sky deforms, The angry night-cloud teems with storms; And savage winds, infuriate driven, Fly howling in the face of heaven! Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom With roseate rays of wine illume: And while our wreaths of parsley spread Their fadeless foliage round our head, Let's hymn the almighty power of wine, And shed libations on his shrine!



ODE LXIX.

They wove the lotus band to deck And fan with pensile wreath each neck; And every guest, to shade his head, Three little fragrant chaplets spread;[1] And one was of the Egyptian leaf, The rest were roses, fair and brief: While from a golden vase profound, To all on flowery beds around, A Hebe, of celestial shape, Poured the rich droppings of the grape!

[1] Longepierre, to give an idea of the luxurious estimation in which garlands were held by the ancients, relates an anecdote of a courtezan, who, in order to gratify three lovers, without leaving cause for Jealousy with any of them, gave a kiss to one, let the other drink after her, and put a garland on the brow of the third; so that each was satisfied with his favor, and flattered himself with the preference.



ODE LXX.

A broken cake, with honey sweet, Is all my spare and simple treat: And while a generous bowl I crown To float my little banquet down, I take the soft, the amorous lyre, And sing of love's delicious fire: In mirthful measures warm and free, I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee!



ODE LXXI.

With twenty chords my lyre is hung, And while I wake them all for thee, Thou, O maiden, wild and young, Disportest in airy levity.

The nursling fawn, that in some shade Its antlered mother leaves behind, Is not more wantonly afraid, More timid of the rustling wind!



ODE LXXII.

Fare thee well, perfidious maid, My soul, too long on earth delayed, Delayed, perfidious girl, by thee, Is on the wing for liberty. I fly to seek a kindlier sphere, Since thou hast ceased to love me here!



ODE LXXIII.

Awhile I bloomed, a happy flower, Till love approached one fatal hour, And made my tender branches feel The wounds of his avenging steel. Then lost I fell, like some poor willow That falls across the wintry billow!



ODE LXXIV.

Monarch Love, resistless boy, With whom the rosy Queen of Joy, And nymphs, whose eyes have Heaven's hue, Disporting tread the mountain-dew; Propitious, oh! receive my sighs, Which, glowing with entreaty, rise That thou wilt whisper to the breast Of her I love thy soft behest: And counsel her to learn from thee. That lesson thou hast taught to me. Ah! if my heart no flattery tell, Thou'lt own I've learned that lesson well!



ODE LXXV.

Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled, Stream on the breeze like floating gold; Come, within a fragrant cloud Blushing with light, thy votary shroud; And, on those wings that sparkling play, Waft, oh, waft me hence away! Love! my soul is full of thee, Alive to all thy luxury. But she, the nymph for whom I glow The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe; Smiles at the chill and hoary hues That time upon my forehead strews. Alas! I fear she keeps her charms, In store for younger, happier arms!



ODE LXXVI.

Hither, gentle Muse of mine, Come and teach thy votary old Many a golden hymn divine, For the nymph with vest of gold.

Pretty nymph, of tender age, Fair thy silky looks unfold; Listen to a hoary sage, Sweetest maid with vest of gold!



ODE LXXVII.

Would that I were a tuneful lyre, Of burnished ivory fair, Which, in the Dionysian choir, Some blooming boy should bear!

Would that I were a golden vase. That some bright nymph might hold My spotless frame, with blushing grace, Herself as pure as gold!



ODE LXXVIII.

When Cupid sees how thickly now, The snows of Time fall o'er my brow, Upon his wing of golden light. He passes with an eaglet's flight, And flitting onward seems to say, "Fare thee well, thou'st had thy day!"

Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray, That lights our life's meandering way, That God, within this bosom stealing, Hath wakened a strange, mingled feeling. Which pleases, though so sadly teasing, And teases, though so sweetly pleasing!

* * * * *

Let me resign this wretched breath Since now remains to me No other balm than kindly death, To soothe my misery!

* * * * *

I know thou lovest a brimming measure, And art a kindly, cordial host; But let me fill and drink at pleasure— Thus I enjoy the goblet most.

I fear that love disturbs my rest, Yet feel not love's impassioned care; I think there's madness in my breast Yet cannot find that madness there!

* * * * *

From dread Leucadia's frowning steep, I'll plunge into the whitening deep: And there lie cold, to death resigned, Since Love intoxicates my mind!

* * * * *

Mix me, child, a cup divine, Crystal water, ruby wine; Weave the frontlet, richly flushing O'er my wintry temples blushing. Mix the brimmer—Love and I Shall no more the contest try. Here—upon this holy bowl, I surrender all my soul!



SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.



HERE AT THY TOMB.

BY MELEAGER.

Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed, Tears, which though vainly now they roll, Are all love hath to give the dead, And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;—

Wept in remembrance of that light. Which naught on earth, without thee, gives, Hope of my heart! now quenched in night, But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.

Where is she? where the blooming bough That once my life's sole lustre made? Torn off by death, 'tis withering now, And all its flowers in dust are laid.

Oh earth! that to thy matron breast Hast taken all those angel charms, Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,— Gently, as in a mother's arms.



SALE OF CUPID.

BY MELEAGER.

Who'll buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he, Fast asleep, sly rogue on his mother's knee; So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep, So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep. See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curled, His wings, too, even in sleep unfurled; And those fingers, which still ever ready are found For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound.

He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile, But never you mind—he's laughing all the while; For little he cares, so he has his own whim, And weeping or laughing are all one to him. His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash, His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash; And so savage is he, that his own dear mother Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.

In short, to sum up this darling's praise, He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways; And if any one wants such an imp to employ, He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy. But see, the boy wakes—his bright tears flow— His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no, Sweet child no, no—though so naughty you be, You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.



TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

To weave a garland for the rose. And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be, Were far less vain than to suppose That silks and gems add grace to thee. Where is the pearl whose orient lustre Would not, beside thee, look less bright? What gold could match the glossy cluster Of those young ringlets full of light?

Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams, The bright blue gem of India's mine, And see how soon, though bright its beams, 'Twill pale before one glance of thine: Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us With some divine, mellifluous air, Who would not say that Beauty's cestus Had let loose all its witcheries there?

Here, to this conquering host of charms I now give up my spell-bound heart. Nor blush to yield even Reason's arms, When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art. Thus to the wind all fears are given; Henceforth those eyes alone I see. Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven, Sits beckoning me to bliss and thee!



WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Why does she so long delay? Night is waning fast away; Thrice have I my lamp renewed, Watching here in solitude, Where can she so long delay? Where, so long delay?

Vainly now have two lamps shone; See the third is nearly gone: Oh that Love would, like the ray Of that weary lamp, decay! But no, alas, it burns still on, Still, still, burns on.

Gods, how oft the traitress dear Swore, by Venus, she'd be here! But to one so false as she What is man or deity? Neither doth this proud one fear,— No, neither doth she fear.



TWIN'ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow? Such glory then thy beauty sheds, I almost think, while awed I bow 'Tis Rhea's self before me treads. Be what thou wilt,—this heart Adores whate'er thou art!

Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave, Like sunny waves to wander free? Then, such a chain of charms they weave, As draws my inmost soul from me. Do what thou wilt,—I must Be charm'd by all thou dost!

Even when, enwrapt in silvery veils, Those sunny locks elude the sight,— Oh, not even then their glory fails To haunt me with its unseen light. Change as thy beauty may, It charms in every way.

For, thee the Graces still attend, Presiding o'er each new attire, And lending every dart they send Some new, peculiar touch of fire, Be what thou wilt,—this heart Adores what'er thou art!



WHEN THE SAD WORD.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

When the sad word, "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling, And with it, Hope passes away, Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling That fatal farewell, bids me stay, For oh! 'tis a penance so weary One hour from thy presence to be, That death to this soul were less dreary, Less dark than long absence from thee.

Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking. Brings life to the heart it shines o'er, And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking, Made light what was darkness before. But mute is the Day's sunny glory, While thine hath a voice, on whose breath, More sweet than the Syren's sweet story, My hopes hang, through life and through death!



MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.

BY PHILODEMUS.

My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown, But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down, And, for blushing, no rose can come near her; In short, she has woven such nets round my heart, That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,— Unless I can find one that's dearer.

Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear, And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear, That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her; Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net, And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget— Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.

But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone, 'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone From the depths of the grave could revive one: In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom, I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb— Unless I could meet with a live



STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.

BY MELEAGER.

Still, like dew in silence falling, Drops for thee the nightly tear Still that voice the past recalling, Dwells, like echo, on my ear, Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me, Here forever fixt thou art: As thy form first shone before me, So 'tis graven on this heart, Deep, deep!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness, Dooms me to this lasting pain. Thou who earnest with so much fleetness, Why so slow to go again? Why? why?



UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY.

Up, sailor boy, 'tis day! The west wind blowing, The spring tide flowing, Summon thee hence away. Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing? Chirp, chirp,—in every note he seemed to say 'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring. Up boy, away,— Who'd stay on land to-day? The very flowers Would from their bowers Delight to wing away!

Leave languid youths to pine On silken pillows; But be the billows Of the great deep thine. Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;" While soft the sail, replying to the breeze, Says, with a yielding sigh, "Yes, where you; please." Up, boy, the wind, the ray, The blue sky o'er thee, The deep before thee, All cry aloud, "Away!"



IN MYRTLE WREATHS.

BY ALCAEUS.

In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover, Like them of old whose one immortal blow Struck off the galling fetters that hung over Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low. Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying; Still midst the brave and free, In isles, o'er ocean lying, Thy home shall ever be.

In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning, Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;' And in the dust a despot victim laid. Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story Your wedded names shall be; A tyrant's death your glory, Your meed, a nation free!



JUVENILE POEMS.

1801.



TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend LITTLE'S Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is you have them in their original form:

non possunt nostros multae, Faustine, liturae emendare jocos; una litura potest.

I am convinced, however, that, though not quite a casuiste relache, you have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know that the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive Juvenilia which he published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems prevent him from making a very good cardinal.

Believe me, my dear friend.

With the truest esteem,

Yours,

T. M.

April 19, 1802



JUVENILE POEMS



FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.

Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus.—JUV.

Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line, Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine, How heavy sits that weight, of alien show, Like martial helm upon an infant's brow; Those borrowed splendors whose contrasting light Throws back the native shades in deeper night.

Ask the proud train who glory's train pursue, Where are the arts by which that glory grew? The genuine virtues with that eagle-gaze Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze! Where is the heart by chymic truth refined, The exploring soul whose eye had read mankind? Where are the links that twined, with heavenly art, His country's interest round the patriot's heart?

* * * * *

Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in armis relinquitur spes.—LIVY.

* * * * *

Is there no call, no consecrating cause Approved by Heav'n, ordained by nature's laws, Where justice flies the herald of our way, And truth's pure beams upon the banners play?

Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath To slumbering babes or innocence in death; And urgent as the tongue of Heaven within, When the mind's balance trembles upon sin.

Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet An echo in the soul's most deep retreat; Along the heart's responding chords should run, Nor let a tone there vibrate—but the one!



VARIETY.

Ask what prevailing, pleasing power Allures the sportive, wandering bee To roam untired, from flower to flower, He'll tell you, 'tis variety.

Look Nature round; her features trace, Her seasons, all her changes see; And own, upon Creation's face, The greatest charm's variety.

For me, ye gracious powers above! Still let me roam, unfixt and free; In all things,—but the nymph I love I'll change, and taste variety.

But, Patty, not a world of charms Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;— No, let me ever seek those arms. There still I'll find variety.



TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH,

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND

Is it not sweet, beloved youth, To rove through Erudition's bowers, And cull the golden fruits of truth, And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers?

And is it not more sweet than this, To feel thy parents' hearts approving, And pay them back in sums of bliss The dear, the endless debt of loving?

It must be so to thee, my youth; With this idea toil is lighter; This sweetens all the fruits of truth, And makes the flowers of fancy brighter.

The little gift we send thee, boy, May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder, If indolence or siren joy Should ever tempt that soul to wander.

'Twill tell thee that the winged day Can, ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavor; That life and time shall fade away, While heaven and virtue bloom forever!



SONG.

If I swear by that eye, you'll allow, Its look is so shifting and new, That the oath I might take on it now The very next glance would undo.

Those babies that nestle so sly Such thousands of arrows have got, That an oath, on the glance of an eye Such as yours, may be off in a shot.

Should I swear by the dew on your lip, Though each moment the treasure renews, If my constancy wishes to trip, I may kiss off the oath when I choose.

Or a sigh may disperse from that flower; Both the dew and the oath that are there; And I'd make a new vow every hour, To lose them so sweetly in air.

But clear up the heaven of your brow, Nor fancy my faith is a feather; On my heart I will pledge you my vow, And they both must be broken together!



TO .......

Remember him thou leavest behind, Whose heart is warmly bound to thee, Close as the tenderest links can bind A heart as warm as heart can be.

Oh! I had long in freedom roved, Though many seemed my soul to snare; 'Twas passion when I thought I loved, 'Twas fancy when I thought them fair.

Even she, my muse's early theme, Beguiled me only while she warmed; Twas young desire that fed the dream, And reason broke what passion formed.

But thou-ah! better had it been If I had still in freedom roved, If I had ne'er thy beauties seen, For then I never should have loved.

Then all the pain which lovers feel Had never to this heart been known; But then, the joys that lovers steal, Should they have ever been my own?

Oh! trust me, when I swear thee this, Dearest! the pain of loving thee, The very pain is sweeter bliss Than passion's wildest ecstasy.

That little cage I would not part, In which my soul is prisoned now, For the most light and winged heart That wantons on the passing vow.

Still, my beloved! still keep in mind, However far removed from me, That there is one thou leavest behind, Whose heart respires for only thee!

And though ungenial ties have bound Thy fate unto another's care, That arm, which clasps thy bosom round, Cannot confine the heart that's there.

No, no! that heart is only mine By ties all other ties above, For I have wed it at a shrine Where we have had no priest but Love.



SONG.

When Time who steals our years away Shall steal our pleasures too, The memory of the past will stay And half our joys renew, Then, Julia, when thy beauty's flower Shall feel the wintry air, Remembrance will recall the hour When thou alone wert fair. Then talk no more of future gloom; Our joys shall always last; For Hope shall brighten days to come, And Memory gild the past.

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, I drink to Love and thee: Thou never canst decay in soul, Thou'lt still be young for me. And as thy; lips the tear-drop chase, Which on my cheek they find, So hope shall steal away the trace That sorrow leaves behind. Then fill the bowl—away with gloom! Our joys shall always last; For Hope shall brighten days to come, And Memory gild the past.

But mark, at thought of future years When love shall lose its soul, My Chloe drops her timid tears, They mingle with my bowl. How like this bowl of wine, my fair, Our loving life shall fleet; Though tears may sometimes mingle there, The draught will still be sweet. Then fill the cup—away with gloom! Our joys shall always last; For Hope will brighten days to come, And Memory gild the past.



SONG.

Have you not seen the timid tear, Steal trembling from mine eye? Have you not marked the flush of fear, Or caught the murmured sigh? And can you think my love is chill, Nor fixt on you alone? And can you rend, by doubting still, A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move, Devoutly, warmly true; My life has been a task of love, One long, long thought of you. If all your tender faith be o'er, If still my truth you'll try; Alas, I know but one proof more— I'll bless your name, and die!



REUBEN AND ROSE.

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls Had long been remembered with awe and dismay; For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls, And it seemed as shut out from the regions of day.

Though the valleys were brightened by many a beam, Yet none could the woods of that castle illume; And the lightning which flashed on the neighboring stream Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom!

"Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse!" Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave;— "It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse, "Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!"

And who was the bright star of chivalry then? Who could be but Reuben, the flower of the age? For Reuben was first in the combat of men, Though Youth had scarce written his name on her page.

For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat, For Rose, who was bright as the spirit of dawn, When with wand dropping diamonds, and silvery feet, It walks o'er the flowers of the mountain and lawn.

Must Rose, then, from Reuben so fatally sever? Sad, sad were the words of the Seer of the Cave, That darkness should cover that castle forever, Or Reuben be sunk in the merciless wave!

To the wizard she flew, saying, "Tell me, oh, tell? Shall my Reuben no more be restored to my eyes?" "Yes, yes—when a spirit shall toll the great bell Of the mouldering abbey, your Reuben shall rise!"

Twice, thrice he repeated "Your Reuben shall rise!" And Rose felt a moment's release from her pain; And wiped, while she listened, the tears from her eyes. And hoped she might yet see her hero again.

That hero could smite at the terrors of death, When he felt that he died for the sire of his Rose; To the Oder he flew, and there, plunging beneath, In the depth of the billows soon found his repose.—

How strangely the order of destiny falls! Not long in the waters the warrior lay, When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls, And the castle of Willumberg basked in the ray!

All, all but the soul of the maid was in light, There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank: Two days did she wander, and all the long night, In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank.

Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell, And heard but the breathings of night in the air; Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell, And saw but the foam of the white billow there.

And often as midnight its veil would undraw, As she looked at the light of the moon in the stream, She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw, As the curl of the surge glittered high in the beam.

And now the third night was begemming the sky; Poor Rose, on the cold dewy margent reclined, There wept till the tear almost froze in her eye, When—hark!—'twas the bell that came deep in the wind!

She startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade, A form o'er the waters in majesty glide; She knew 'twas her love, though his cheek was decayed, And his helmet of silver was washed by the tide.

Was this what the Seer of the Cave had foretold?— Dim, dim through the phantom the moon shot a gleam; 'Twas Reuben, but, ah! he was deathly and cold, And fleeted away like the spell of a dream!

Twice, thrice did he rise, and as often she thought From the bank to embrace him, but vain her endeavor! Then, plunging beneath, at a billow she caught, And sunk to repose on its bosom forever!



DID NOT.

'Twas a new feeling—something more Than we had dared to own before. Which then we hid not; We saw it in each other's eye, And wished, in every half-breathed sigh, To speak, but did not.

She felt my lips' impassioned touch— 'Twas the first time I dared so much, And yet she chid not; But whispered o'er my burning brow, "Oh! do you doubt I love you now?" Sweet soul! I did not.

Warmly I felt her bosom thrill, I prest it closer, closer still, Though gently bid not; Till—oh! the world hath seldom heard Of lovers, who so nearly erred, And yet, who did not.



TO .......

That wrinkle, when first I espied it, At once put my heart out of pain; Till the eye, that was glowing beside it, Disturbed my ideas again.

Thou art just in the twilight at present, When woman's declension begins; When, fading from all that is pleasant, She bids a good night to her sins.

Yet thou still art so lovely to me, I would sooner, my exquisite mother! Repose in the sunset of thee, Than bask in the noon of another.



TO MRS. .......

ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER.

Is not thy mind a gentle mind? Is not that heart a heart refined? Hast thou not every gentle grace, We love in woman's mind and face? And, oh! art thou a shrine for Sin To hold her hateful worship in?

No, no, be happy—dry that tear— Though some thy heart hath harbored near, May now repay its love with blame; Though man, who ought to shield thy fame, Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee; Though all the world look cold upon thee, Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still Unharmed by that surrounding chill; Like the famed drop, in crystal found,[1] Floating, while all was frozen round,— Unchilled unchanging shalt thou be, Safe in thy own sweet purity.

[1] This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left us some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed within a piece of crystal. Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind at Milan; and adds; "It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vendoeme in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen".



ANACREONTIC.

—in lachrymas verterat omne merum. TIB. lib. i. eleg. 5.

Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple shower: And, while the drops my goblet steep, I'll think in woe the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine! Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine. Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, I'll taste the luxury of woe.



TO .......

When I loved you, I can't but allow I had many an exquisite minute; But the scorn that I feel for you now Hath even more luxury in it.

Thus, whether we're on or we're off, Some witchery seems to await you; To love you was pleasant enough, And, oh! 'tis delicious hate you!



TO JULIA.

IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.

Why, let the stingless critic chide With all that fume of vacant pride Which mantles o'er the pendant fool, Like vapor on a stagnant pool. Oh! if the song, to feeling true, Can please the elect, the sacred few, Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught, Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought— If some fond feeling maid like thee, The warm-eyed child of Sympathy, Shall say, while o'er my simple theme She languishes in Passion's dream, "He was, indeed, a tender soul— No critic law, no chill control, Should ever freeze, by timid art, The flowings of so fond a heart!" Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love! That, hovering like a snow-winged dove, Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild, And hailed me Passion's warmest child,— Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye, From Feeling's breast the votive sigh; Oh! let my song, my memory find, A shrine within the tender mind! And I will smile when critics chide, And I will scorn the fume of pride Which mantles o'er the pendant fool, Like vapor round some stagnant pool!



TO JULIA.

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream, A dream, I find, illusory as sweet: One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem, Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

I've heard you oft eternal truth declare; Your heart was only mine, I once believed. Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air? And must I say, my hopes were all deceived?

Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal; Julia!—'tis pity, pity makes you kind; You know I love, and you would seem to feel.

But shall I still go seek within those arms A joy in which affection takes no part? No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms, When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.



THE SHRINE.

TO .......

My fates had destined me to rove A long, long pilgrimage of love; And many an altar on my way Has lured my pious steps to stay; For if the saint was young and fair, I turned, and sung my vespers there. This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire, Is what your pretty saints require: To pass, nor tell a single bead, With them would be profane indeed! But, trust me, all this young devotion Was but to keep my zeal in motion; And, every humbler altar past, I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!



TO A LADY,

WITH SOME MANUSCRIPT POEMS,

ON LEAVING THE COUNTRY.

When, casting many a look behind, I leave the friends I cherish here— Perchance some other friends to find, But surely finding none so dear—

Haply the little simple page, Which votive thus I've traced for thee, May now and then a look engage, And steal one moment's thought for me.

But, oh! in pity let not those Whose hearts are not of gentle mould, Let not the eye that seldom flows With feeling's tear, my song behold.

For, trust me, they who never melt With pity, never melt with love; And such will frown at all I've felt, And all my loving lays reprove.

But if, perhaps, some gentler mind, Which rather loves to praise than blame, Should in my page an interest find. And linger kindly on my name;

Tell him—or, oh! if, gentler still, By female lips my name be blest: For where do all affections thrill So sweetly as in woman's breast?—

Tell her, that he whose loving themes Her eye indulgent wanders o'er, Could sometimes wake from idle dreams, And bolder flights of fancy soar;

That Glory oft would claim the lay, And Friendship oft his numbers move; But whisper then, that, "sooth to say, His sweetest song was given to Love!"



TO JULIA.

Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part, Our souls it cannot, shall not sever; The heart will seek its kindred heart, And cling to it as close as ever.

But must we, must we part indeed? Is all our dream of rapture over? And does not Julia's bosom bleed To leave so dear, so fond a lover?

Does she, too, mourn?—Perhaps she may; Perhaps she mourns our bliss so fleeting; But why is Julia's eye so gay, If Julia's heart like mine is beating?

I oft have loved that sunny glow Of gladness in her blue eye beaming— But can the bosom bleed with woe While joy is in the glances beaming?

No, no!—Yet, love, I will not chide; Although your heart were fond of roving, Nor that, nor all the world beside Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

You'll soon be distant from his eye, And, with you, all that's worth possessing. Oh! then it will be sweet to die, When life has lost its only blessing!



TO .......

Sweet lady, look not thus again: Those bright, deluding smiles recall A maid remember'd now with pain, Who was my love, my life, my all!

Oh! while this heart bewildered took Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she smile and lisp and look, And I would hear and gaze and sigh!

Yes, I did love her—wildly love— She was her sex's best deceiver! And oft she swore she'd never rove— And I was destined to believe her!

Then, lady, do not wear the smile Of one whose smile could thus betray; Alas! I think the lovely wile Again could steal my heart away.

For, when those spells that charmed my mind On lips so pure as thine I see, I fear the heart which she resigned Will err again and fly to thee!



NATURE'S LABELS.

A FRAGMENT.

In vain we fondly strive to trace The soul's reflection in the face; In vain we dwell on lines and crosses, Crooked mouth or short proboscis; Boobies have looked as wise and bright As Plato or the Stagirite: And many a sage and learned skull Has peeped through windows dark and dull. Since then, though art do all it can, We ne'er can reach the inward man, Nor (howsoe'er "learned Thebans" doubt) The inward woman, from without, Methinks 'twere well if nature could (And Nature could, if Nature would) Some pithy, short descriptions write On tablets large, in black and white, Which she might hang about our throttles, Like labels upon physic-bottles; And where all men might read—but stay— As dialectic sages say, The argument most apt and ample For common use is the example. For instance, then, if Nature's care Had not portrayed, in lines so fair, The inward soul of Lucy Lindon. This is the label she'd have pinned on.

LABEL FIRST.

Within this form there lies enshrined The purest, brightest gem of mind. Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw Upon its charms the shade of woe, The lustre of the gem, when veiled, Shall be but mellowed, not concealed.

* * * * *

Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able, That Nature wrote a second label, They're her own words—at least suppose so— And boldly pin it on Pomposo.

LABEL SECOND.

When I composed the fustian brain Of this redoubted Captain Vain. I had at hand but few ingredients, And so was forced to use expedients. I put therein some small discerning, A grain of sense, a grain of learning; And when I saw the void behind, I filled it up with—froth and wind!

* * * * *



TO JULIA

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

When Time was entwining the garland of years, Which to crown my beloved was given, Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears, Yet the flowers were all gathered in heaven.

And long may this garland be sweet to the eye, May its verdure forever be new; Young Love shall enrich it with many a sigh, And Sympathy nurse it with dew.



A REFLECTION AT SEA.

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile, Yon little billow heaves its breast, And foams and sparkles for awhile,— Then murmuring subsides to rest.

Thus man, the sport of bliss and care, Rises on time's eventful sea: And, having swelled a moment there, Thus melts into eternity!



CLORIS AND FANNY.

Cloris! if I were Persia's king, I'd make my graceful queen of thee; While FANNY, wild and artless thing, Should but thy humble handmaid be.

There is but one objection in it— That, verily, I'm much afraid I should, in some unlucky minute, Forsake the mistress for the maid.



THE SHIELD.

Say, did you not hear a voice of death! And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath, And sung a ghostly dirge in the storm?

Was it the wailing bird of the gloom, That shrieks on the house of woe all night? Or a shivering fiend that flew to a tomb, To howl and to feed till the glance of light?

'Twas not the death-bird's cry from the wood, Nor shivering fiend that hung on the blast; 'Twas the shade of Helderic—man of blood— It screams for the guilt of days that are past.

See, how the red, red lightning strays, And scares the gliding ghosts of the heath! Now on the leafless yew it plays, Where hangs the shield of this son of death.

That shield is blushing with murderous stains; Long has it hung from the cold yew's spray; It is blown by storms and washed by rains, But neither can take the blood away!

Oft by that yew, on the blasted field, Demons dance to the red moon's light; While the damp boughs creak, and the swinging shield Sings to the raving spirit of night!



TO JULIA WEEPING.

Oh! if your tears are given to care, If real woe disturbs your peace, Come to my bosom, weeping fair! And I will bid your weeping cease.

But if with Fancy's visioned fears, With dreams of woe your bosom thrill; You look so lovely in your tears, That I must bid you drop them still.



DREAMS.

TO ... ....

In slumber, I prithee how is it That souls are oft taking the air, And paying each other a visit, While bodies are heaven knows where?

Last night, 'tis in vain to deny it, Your soul took a fancy to roam, For I heard her, on tiptoe so quiet, Come ask, whether mine was at home.

And mine let her in with delight, And they talked and they laughed the time through; For, when souls come together at night, There is no saying what they mayn't do!

And your little Soul, heaven bless her! Had much to complain and to say, Of how sadly you wrong and oppress her By keeping her prisoned all day.

"If I happen," said she, "but to steal "For a peep now and then to her eye, "Or, to quiet the fever I feel, "Just venture abroad on a sigh;

"In an instant she frightens me in "With some phantom of prudence or terror, "For fear I should stray into sin, "Or, what is still worse, into error!

"So, instead of displaying my graces, "By daylight, in language and mien, "I am shut up in corners and places, "Where truly I blush to be seen!"

Upon hearing this piteous confession, My Soul, looking tenderly at her, Declared, as for grace and discretion, He did not know much of the matter;

"But, to-morrow, sweet Spirit!" he said, "Be at home, after midnight, and then "I will come when your lady's in bed, "And we'll talk o'er the subject again."

So she whispered a word in his ear, I suppose to her door to direct him, And, just after midnight, my dear, Your polite little Soul may expect him.



TO ROSA.

WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS.

The wisest soul, by anguish torn, Will soon unlearn the lore it knew; And when the shrining casket's worn, The gem within will tarnish too.