Page images
PDF
EPUB

While rosy boys disporting round,
In circlets trip the velvet ground.
But ah! if there Apollo toys,
I tremble for the rosy boys.'

ODE VI.2

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

1 But ah! if there Apollo toys,

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

The Italian translators, to save themselves the trouble of a note, have taken the liberty of making Anacreon himself explain this fable. Thus Salvini, the most literal of any of them :

Ma con lor non giuochi Apollo ;

Che in fiero risco

Col duro disco

A Giacinto flaccò il collo.

? This beautiful fiction, which the commentators have attributed to Julian, a royal poet, the Vatican MS. pronounces to be the genuine offspring of Anacreon. It has, indeed, all the features of the parent:

et facile insciis Noscitetur ab omnibus.

3 Where many an early rose was weeping,

I found the urchin Cupid sleeping.] This idea is prettily imitated in the following epigram by Andreas Naugerius :

Florentes dum forte vagans mea Hyella per hortos
Texit odoratis lilia cana rosis,

Ecce rosas inter latitantem invenit Amorem

Et simul annexis floribus implicuit.
Luctatur primo, et contra nitentibus alis
Indomitus tentat solvere vincla puer :
Mox ubi lacteolas et dignas matre papillas
Vidit et ora ipsos nata movere Deos,
Impositosque coma ambrosios ut sentit odores
Quosque legit diti messe beatus Arabs;

"I (dixit) mea, quære novum tibi, mater, Amorem,
Imperio sedes hæc erit apta meo."

As fair Hyella, through the bloomy grove,
A wreath of many mingled flow'rets wove,
Within a rose a sleeping Love she found,
And in the twisted wreaths the baby bound.
Awhile he struggled, and impatient tried
To break the rosy bonds the virgin tied;
But when he saw her bosom's radiant swell,
Her features, where the eye of Jove might dwell;
And caught th' ambrosial odours of her hair,
Rich as the breathings of Arabian air;
"Oh! mother Venus," (said the raptur'd child,
By charms, of more than mortal bloom, beguil'd,)
"Go seek another boy, thou'st lost thine own,
"Hyella's arms shall now be Cupid's throne !"

ODE VII.4

THE Women tell me every day
That all my bloom has past away.
"Behold," the pretty wantons cry,
"Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they're withering too!"
Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;*
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give.

ODE VIII.7

I CARE not for the idle state

Of Persia's king ", the rich, the great :

This epigram of Naugerius is imitated by Lodovico Dolce in a poem, beginning

Mentre raccoglie hor uno, hor altro fiore

Vicina a un rio di chiare et lucid' onde,
Lidia, &c. &c.

4 Alberti has imitated this ode in a poem, beginning

Nisa mi dice e Clori
Tirsi, tu se' pur veglio.

5 Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,

I'm sure I neither know nor care;] Henry Stephen very justly remarks the elegant negligence of expression in the original here: Έγω δε τας κόμας μου, Ειτ' εισιν, ειτ' απήλθον, Ουκ οίδα.

And Longepierre has adduced from Catullus, what he thinks a similar instance of this simplicity of manner :

Ipse quis sit, utrum sit, an non sit, id quoque nescit. Longepierre was a good critic; but perhaps the line which he has selected is a specimen of a carelessness not very commendable. At the same time I confess, that none of the Latin poets have ever ap peared to me so capable of imitating the graces of Anacreon is Catullus, if he had not allowed a depraved imagination to hurry him so often into mere vulgar licentiousness.

6 That still as death approaches nearer,

The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;] Pontanus has a very delicate thought upon the subject of old age:

Quid rides, Matrona ? senem quid temnis amantem?
Quisquis amat nullâ est conditione senex.

Why do you scorn my want of youth,
And with a smile my brow behold?

Lady dear! believe this truth,

That he who loves cannot be old.

"The German poet Lessing has imitated this ode. Vol ip 24." Degen. Gail de Editionibus.

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

[blocks in formation]
[ocr errors]

I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the treasur'd gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy wreath,
Its freshness o'er my brow to breathe
Be mine the rich perfumes that flow,
To cool and scent my locks of snow.1
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er would shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then -
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimm'd their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
With mantling cup and cordial smile;
And shed from each new bowl of wine
The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine.

For Death may come, with brow unpleasant,
May come, when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us-drink no more!

But ne'er could I a murderer be, The grape alone shall bleed by me; Yet can I shout, with wild delight, "I will-I will be mad to-night!"

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

ODE IX.

I PRAY thee, by the gods above,"
Give me the mighty bowl I love,
And let me sing, in wild delight,
"I will-I will be mad to-night!"
Alemæon once, as legends tell,
Was frenzied by the fiends of hell;
Orestes too, with naked tread,
Frantic pac'd the mountain-head;
And why? a murder'd mother's shade
Haunted them still where'er they strayed.

Ψυχήν εμήν έρωτα,

Τι σοι θελεις γενέσθαι ;

Θελεις Γύγεω τα και τα

Be mine the rich perfumes that flow,

To cool and scent my locks of snow.] In the original, votos
Pričanka imama. On account of this idea of perfuming the beard,
us de Pauw pronounces the whole ode to be the spurious
idation of some lascivious monk, who was nursing his beard
rith anguents.
But he should have known, that this was an
acient cartern custom, which, if we may believe Savary, still
nita: Vous voyez, Monsieur (says this traveller), que l'usage
que de se parfumer la tête et la barbe*, célébré par le prophète
subsiste encore de nos jours." Lettre 12. Savary likewise
is a very ode of Anacreon. Angerianus has not thought the
consistent, having introduced it in the following lines:

Hae mihi cura, rosis et cingere tempora myrto,
Et curas multo delapidare mero.

Hae mihi cura, comas et barbam tingere succo
Assyrio et dulces continuare jocos.

This be my care, to wreathe my brow with flowers,
To drench my sorrows in the ample bowl;

To pour rich perfumes o'er my beard in showers,
And give full loose to mirth and joy of soul!

The poet is here in a frenzy of enjoyment, and it is, indeed, Imabilis insania; "—

Furor di poesia,

Di lascivia, e di vino,

**Sicut unguentum in capite quod descendit in barbam tronia. Pocaume exxxiii.”

ODE X.3

4

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

Triplicato furore,

Baccho, Apollo, et Amore.

Ritratti del Cavalier Marino.

This is truly, as Scaliger expresses it,

-Insanire dulce

Et sapidum furere furorem.

3 This ode is addressed to a swallow. I find from Degen and from Gail's index, that the German poet Weisse has imitated it, Scherz. Lieder. lib. ii. carm. 5.; that Ramler also has imitated it, Lyr. Blumenlese, lib. iv. p. 335.; and some others. See Gail de Editionibus.

We are here referred by Degen to that dull book, the Epistles of Alciphron, tenth epistle, third book; where Iophon complains to Eraston of being awakened by the crowing of a cock, from his vision of riches.

4 Silly swallow, prating thing, &c.] The loquacity of the swallow was proverbialised; thus Nicostratus:

Ει το συνεχώς και πολλά και ταχέως λαλείν
Ην του φρονειν παράσημον, αἱ χελιδονες
Ελέγοντ' αν ήμων σωφρονεστέρα, πολύ,
If in prating from morning till night
A sign of our wisdom there be,
The swallows are wiser by right,

For they prattle much faster than we.

5 Or, as Tereus did of old, &c.] Modern poetry has confirmed the name of Philomel upon the nightingale ; but many respectable authorities among the ancients assigned this metamorphose to Progne, and made Philomel the swallow, as Anacreon does here.

ODE XI.

"TELL me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay thee For this little waxen toy, Image of the Paphian boy?" Thus I said, the other day, To a youth who pass'd my way: "Sir," (he answer'd, and the while Answer'd all in Doric style,) "Take it, for a trifle take it;

"Twas not I who dared to make it ; No, believe me, 'twas not I; Oh, it has cost me many a sigh, And I can no longer keep Little gods, who murder sleep!"2 "Here, then here," (I said with joy,) "Here is silver for the boy : He shall be my bosom guest, Idol of my pious breast!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine, Warm me with that torch of thine; Make me feel as I have felt, Or thy waxen frame shall melt: I must burn with warm desire,

Or thou, my boy-in yonder fire."

[blocks in formation]

Or thou, my boy-in yonder fire.] From this Longepierre conjectures, that, whatever Anacreon might say, he felt sometimes the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature. 4 They tell how Atys, wild with love,

Roams the mount and haunted grove;] There are many contradictory stories of the loves of Cybele and Atys. It is certain that he was mutilated, but whether by his own fury, or Cybele's jealousy, is a point upon which authors are not agreed.

5 Cybele's name he howls around, &c.] I have here adopted the accentuation which Elias Andreas gives to Cybele:

In montibus Cybelen Magno sonans boatu.

6 Oft too, by Claros' hallow'd spring, &c.] This fountain was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated between Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The god had an oracle there. Scaliger thus alludes to it in his Anacreontica:

Semel ut concitus œstro,

Veluti qui Clarias aquas

Ebibere loquaces,

Quo plus canunt, plura volunt.

Cybele's name he howls around, $
The gloomy blast returns the sound!
Oft too, by Claros' hallow'd spring,
The votaries of the laurell'd king
Quaff the inspiring, magic stream,
And rave in wild, prophetic dream.
But frenzied dreams are not for me,
Great Bacchus is my deity!

Full of mirth, and full of him,
While floating odours round me swim,'
While mantling bowls are full supplied,
And you sit blushing by my side,

I will be mad and raving too-
Mad, my girl, with love for you!

ODE XIII.

I WILL, I will, the conflict's past,
And I'll consent to love at last.
Cupid has long, with smiling art,
Invited me to yield my heart;

And I have thought that peace of mind
Should not be for a smile resign'd:
And so repell'd the tender lure,

And hop'd my heart would sleep secure.

But, slighted in his boasted charms, The angry infant flew to arms; He slung his quiver's golden frame, He took his bow, his shafts of flame, And proudly summon'd me to yield, Or meet him on the martial field. And what did I unthinking do? I took to arms, undaunted, too;"

7 While floating odours, &c.] Spaletti has quite mistaken th import of Kopeadec, as applied to the poet's mistress-"Mea fatigatu amica; "- thus interpreting it in a sense which must want eithe delicacy or gallantry; if not, perhaps, both.

8 And what did I unthinking do!

I took to arms, undaunted, too;] Longepierre has here quoted a epigram from the Anthologia, in which the poet assumes Reas as the armour against Love.

Οπλισμοί προς έρωτα περὶ στερνοισι λογισμού,
Ουδε με νικήσει, μουνος των προς ένα
Θνατος δ' αθανατω συνελεύσομαι' ην δε βοηθού
Βακχον έχη, το μόνος προς δύ' εγω δύναμαι ;
With Reason I cover my breast as a shield,
And fearlessly meet little Love in the field:
Thus fighting his godship, I'll ne'er be dismay'd;
But if Bacchus should ever advance to his aid,
Alas! then, unable to combat the two,
Unfortunate warrior, what should I do?

This idea of the irresistibility of Cupid and Bacchus united. delicately expressed in an Italian poem, which is so truly AL creontic, that its introduction here may be pardoned. It is s imitation, indeed, of our poet's sixth ode.

Lavossi Amore in quel vicino flume
Ove giuro (Pastor) che bevend' io
Bevei le fiamme, anzi l'istesso Dio,
Ch'or con l'humide piume
Lascivetto mi scherza al cor intorno.
Ma che sarei s'io lo bevessi un giorno,

Assum'd the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smil'd at fear.
Then (hear it, all ye powers above!)
I fought with Love! I fought with Love!
And now his arrows all were shed,
And I had just in terror fled—
When, heaving an indignant sigh,
To see me thus unwounded fly,
And, having now no other dart,
He shot himself into my heart!'
My heart-alas the luckless day!
Receiv'd the god, and died away.
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield!
Thy lord at length is forc'd to yield.
Vain, vain, is every outward care,
The foe's within, and triumphs there.

Bacco, nel tuo liquore?

Sarei, piu che non sono ebro d'Amore.
The urchin of the bow and quiver
Was bathing in a neighbouring river,
Where, as I drank on yester-eve,
(Shepherd-youth, the tale believe,)
"Twas not a co ling, crystal draught,
Twas liquid flame I madly quaff'd;
For Love was in the rippling tide,
I felt him to my bosom glide;
And now the wily, wanton minion

Plays round my heart with restless pinion.

A day it was of fatal star,

But ah! 'twere even more fatal far,

If, Bacchus, in thy cup of fire,

I found this flutt'ring, young desire:

Then, then indeed my soul would prove,

Ev'n more than ever, drunk with love!

And, having now no other dart,

Best himself into my heart!] Dryden has parodied this thought in the following extravagant lines :

I'm all o'er Love;

Nay. I am Love; Love shot, and shot so fast,
He shot himself into my breast at last.

1 The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses, means nothing more than, by a lively hyperbole, to inform us, that his heart, unred by any one object, was warm with devotion towards the sex in ceneral. Cowley is indebted to this ode for the hint of his Salad, called The Chronicle ;" and the learned Menage has imitated it in a Greek Anacreontic, which has so much ease and it, that the reader may not be displeased at seeing it here:

ΠΡΟΣ ΒΙΩΝΑ.

Σε αλσεών τα φύλλα,
Δειμωνίους τε ποιες,
Ει νυκτος αστρα παντα,
Παράκτιους τα ψάμμους
Αλος το κυματώδη,
Δυνή, Βίων, αριθμείν
Και τους εμους έρωτας
Αυτή, Βίων, αριθμείν.
Κόρην, γυναικα, Χήραν,
Σμίκρην, Μεσην, Μεγιστην,
Λευκήν τε και Μελαιναν,

Ορειάδας, Ναπαίας,
Νηρηίδας τε πάσας
Ο σας φίλος φίλησε.

Πάντων κορος μεν εστιν,
Αυτήν νέων Ερώτων,
Δεσποιναν Αφροδίτην,
Χρύσην, καλην γλυκείαν,
Ερασμίαν, ποθεινήν,
Λει μόνην φιλησει
Έγωγε μη δυναίμην

ODE XIV.2

COUNT me, on the summer trees,
Every leaf that courts the breeze;"
Count me, on the foamy deep,
Every wave that sinks to sleep;
Then, when you have numbered these
Billowy tides and leafy trees,
Count me all the flames I prove,
All the gentle nymphs I love.
First, of pure Athenian maids
Sporting in their olive shades,
You may reckon just a score,
Nay, I'll grant you fifteen more.
In the fam'd Corinthian grove,
Where such countless wantons rove,*
Chains of beauties may be found,
Chains, by which my heart is bound;

Tell the foliage of the woods,
Tell the billows of the floods,
Number midnight's starry store,
And the sands that crowd the shore,
Then, my Bion, thou mayst count
Of my loves the vast amount.
I've been loving, all my days,
Many nymphs, in many ways;
Virgin, widow, maid, and wife-
I've been doting all my life.
Naiads, Nereids, nymphs of fountains,
Goddesses of groves and mountains,
Fair and sable, great and small,
Yes, I swear I've lov'd them all!
Soon was every passion over,

I was but the moment's lover;
Oh! I'm such a roving elf,
That the Queen of love herself,
Though she practis'd all her wiles,
Rosy blushes, wreathed smiles,
All her beauty's proud endeavour
Could not chain my heart for ever.

Count me on the summer trees,

Every leaf. &c.] This figure is called, by rhetoricians, the Impossible (advvarov), and is very frequently made use of in poetry. The amatory writers have exhausted a world of imagery by it, to express the infinite number of kisses which they require from the lips of their mistresses: in this Catullus led the way.

- Quam sidera multa, cum tacet nox,
Furtivos hominum vident amores;
Tam te basia multa basiare
Vesano satis, et super, Catullo est:
Quæ nec pernumerare curiosi
Possint, nec mala fascinare lingua.

As many stellar eyes of light,
As through the silent waste of night,
Gazing upon this world of shade,
Witness some secret youth and maid,
Who fair as thou, and fond as I,

In stolen joys enamour'a lie,

So many kisses, ere I slumber,

Upon those dew-bright lips I'll number;

So many kisses we shall count,

Envy can never tell the' amount.

No tongue shall blab the sum, but mine;

No lips shall fascinate, but thine!

4 In the fam'd Corinthian grove,

Carm. 7.

Where such countless wantons rove, &c.] Corinth was very famous for the beauty and number of its courtezans. Venus was the deity principally worshipped by the people, and their constant prayer was, that the gods should increase the number of her worshippers. We may perceive from the application of the verb

[blocks in formation]

Dangerous to a soul like mine!] "With justice has the poet attributed beauty to the women of Greece."- Degen.

M. de Pauw, the author of Dissertations upon the Greeks, is of a different opinion; he thinks, that by a capricious partiality of nature, the other sex had all the beauty; and by this supposition endeavours to account for a very singular depravation of instinct among that people.

2 Gades' warm desiring train ;] The Gaditanian girls were like the Baladières of India, whose dances are thus described by a French author; "Les danses sont presque toutes des pantomimes d'amour; le plan, le dessein, les attitudes, les mesures, les sons et les cadences de ces ballets, tout respire cette passion et en exprime les voluptés et les fureurs."-Histoire du Commerce des Europ. dans les deux Indes. Raynal.

The music of the Gaditanian females had all the voluptuous character of their dancing, as appears from Martial :

Cantica qui Nili, qui Gaditana susurrat.

Lib. iii. epig. 63.

Lodovico Ariosto had this ode of our bard in his mind, when he wrote his poem "De diversis amoribus." See the Anthologia Italorum.

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

The ancients made use of letter-carrying pigeons, when they went any distance from home, as the most certain means of conveying intelligence back. That tender domestic attachment, which at

Tell me whither, whence you rove, Tell me all, my sweetest dove.

Curious stranger, I belong
To the bard of Teian song;
With his mandate now I fly
To the nymph of azure eye;-
She, whose eye has madden'd many,"
But the poet more than any.
Venus, for a hymn of love,
Warbled in her votive grove,"
('Twas in sooth a gentle lay,)
Gave me to the bard away.

See me now his faithful minion, -
Thus with softly-gliding pinion,
To his lovely girl I bear
Songs of passion through the air.
Oft he blandly whispers me,

66

Soon, my bird, I'll set you free."
But in vain he'll bid me fly,
I shall serve him till I die.
Never could my plumes sustain
Ruffling winds and chilling rain,
O'er the plains, or in the dell,
On the mountain's savage swell,
Secking in the desert wood
Gloomy shelter, rustic food.
Now I lead a life of ease,

Far from rugged haunts like these.
From Anacreon's hand I eat
Food delicious, viands sweet;
Flutter o'er his goblet's brim,
Sip the foamy wine with him.
Then, when I have wanton'd round

To his lyre's beguiling sound;

tracts this delicate little bird through every danger and difficulty, till it settles in its native nest, affords to the author of "The Plessures of Memory" a fine and interesting exemplification of his subject.

Led by what chart, transports the timid dove
The wreaths of conquest, or the vows of love!

See the poem. Daniel Heinsius, in speaking of Dousa, who adopted
this method at the siege of Leyden, expresses a similar sentiment.
Quo patriæ non tendit amor? Mandats referre
Postquam hominem nequiit mittere, misit avem.
Fuller tells us, that at the siege of Jerusalem, the Christians in-
tercepted a letter, tied to the legs of a dove, in which the Persian
Emperor promised assistance to the besieged-Holy War, cap. 24.
book i.

4 She, whose eye has maddened many, &c.] For ruparver, in the original, Zeune and Schneider conjecture that we should read Tuparvov, in allusion to the strong influence which this object of his love held over the mind of Polycrates. See Degen.

5 Venus, for a hymn of love,

Warbled in her votive grove, &c.] "This passage is invaluable, and I do not think that anything so beautiful or so delicate has ever been said. What an idea does it give of the poetry of the man, from whom Venus herself, the mother of the Graces and the Pleasures, purchases a little hymn with one of her favourite doves !"-Longe pierre.

De Pauw objects to the authenticity of this ode, because it makes Anacreon his own panegyrist; but poets have a licence for praising themselves, which, with some indeed, may be considered as comprised under their general privilege of fiction.

« PreviousContinue »