The dear delusion to renew,

I sigh'd, and sunk to sleep again.

ODE IX.-ON A DOVE.1

PRETTY pigeon, tell me, pray,
Whither speeding? whence away?
Breathing balmy odors round,
Where thy fluttering pinions sound?
Who despatch'd thee through the air?
What commission dost thou bear?
'Anacreon, the blithe and gay,
The master dear whom I obey,
Sent me swift from yonder grove
To seek the lady of his love.

I dare not tell the name she bears,
But beauty's sweetest smile she wears:
Possess'd of every pleasing art,
She reigns supreme o'er every heart.
Fair Venus sold me to the bard,
A little hymn the fix'd reward.2

And dress'd in all its visionary charms,
Restores my fair deserter to my arms!
But when with day the sweet delusions fly,
And all things wake to life and joy, but I,
As if once more forsaken, I complain,
And close my eyes, to dream of you again.

1 To understand this ode properly, we must remember that it was a custom among the ancients, when they undertook long journeys, and were desirous of sending back any news with uncommon expedition, to take tame pigeons along with them. When they thought proper to write to their friends, they let one of these birds loose with letters fastened to its neck: the bird, once released, would never cease its flight till it arrived at its nest and young ones. The same custom is still common among the Turks and other eastern nations.

2 It is impossible not to admire the address and delicacy

So now the poet's page am I,
His courier through the pathless sky;
And sometimes, as you see me now,
The bearer of some tender vow.
He thinks, perhaps, he pleases me,
By saying I shall soon be free;
But though I should the boon obtain,
His willing slave I'll still remain.
For, ah! I do not wish to roam,
Or quit my sweet, my happy home,
Far flying over hill and plain
My wretched, rustic food to gain;
Or shivering on some tree to stay,
And coo the cheerless hours away:
For now,
I feast on dainty bread,
And by the hands I love am fed ;
And when the cup has press'd his lip,
His sweet delicious wine I sip;
And when my heart is light and gay,
I sometimes little frolics play;
Upon his shoulder take my place,
And with my wings o'erspread his face.
Or if to sleep my humor suit,
I perch upon his warbling lute,
And by his careful hand caress'd,
By softest sounds am lull'd to rest.
I've told you all-begone! adieu !
And let me now my flight pursue.
Nay, friend, no longer urge my stay,
For I have prated like a jay.'

of this indirect compliment to his own writings. Venus, the goddess of beauty, and mother of the Graces, is represented as being willing to purchase a little hymn of his composing at the price of one of her favorite doves. This passage is cited by Fawkes as a proof that Anacreon wrote hymns in honor of the gods: but be this as it may, it is certain that few fragments have reached us, and those of doubtful authority.

ODE X.-ON A WAXEN CUPID.

A WAXEN Cupid, nicely wrought,

A rustic youth for sale had brought.

Say, what's your price, my friend,' I cried,
When thus the silly clown replied,

In Doric phrase,' devoid of skill:
'E'en take him, sir, for what you will:
'Tis cheap, you'll say; but, truth to tell,
No images I make or sell.

But as for this young rogue you see,

He must not-shall not dwell with me.'

6

If so, my pretty youth,' I said,

Our bargain shall be quickly made:
To you this little coin I'll give,2
And, Cupid, thou with me shalt live.
And do thou now my breast inspire,
There kindle all thy former fire:
O let me boast a lover's name,

Or thou thyself shalt melt in flame.'3

1 The Doric dialect was remarkable for its broadness and harshness. It was the most ancient of the four, and was used only by the common people of Greece. It is not therefore without reason, as the commentators have remarked, that Anacreon makes this young rustic speak it, since he was so insensible to the charms of love as to wish to get rid even of his image.

2 In the Greek it is a drachm, an Attic coin worth about nine pence English, or, according to some, only seven pence three farthings, or eight pence farthing.

3 Barnes observes that the ancient heathens used to treat the images of their gods in the same manner as they fancied they had been treated by them. The modern Indians, when any calamity befalls them, are accustomed to chastise their idols with scourges.

ODE XI.-ON HIMSELF.1

'ANACREON,' the lasses say,

'Old fellow, you have had your day :
Consult your mirror, mark with care,2
How scanty now your silver hair :3
Old wintry Time has shed his snows,
And bald and bare your forehead shows.'
But, faith! I know not where they're gone,
Or if I've any left-or none;

But this I know, that every day

Shall see me sportive, blithe and gay;
For 'tis our wisdom so to do

The nearer death appears in view.

ODE XII.-ON A SWALLOW.

WHAT punishment shall I decree,
Vexatious, chattering bird, to thee?

1 However successfully the spirit and meaning of this author may sometimes be preserved, it is impossible to convey an adequate idea of that facility of thought and easiness of expression which are so peculiarly his own. What would in others justly be considered the perfection of art, in him appears perfectly natural; and one might almost imagine that his numbers flowed spontaneously to the warblings of his lyre. These remarks are particularly applicable to this ode, which, for simplicity and playfulness of expression, is inferior to no one in the collection.

2 Before the invention of glass mirrors were used made of brass or some other metal, and sometimes of stones highly polished.

3 It was remarked by an ancient author that Venus herself, if destitute of hair, would not, though surrounded by the Loves and Graces, have had charms sufficient to please her husband Vulcan.

Say, shall I clip thy restless wing?
Or, like the cruel Thracian king,'
Tear out that tongue whose noisy scream
Has roused me from so sweet a dream?
For, oh! methought my love was nigh,
"Till, startled by thy twittering cry,
She fled upon the wings of morn,2
And left me joyless and forlorn.

ODE XIII.-ON HIMSELF.

POOR Atys, as old poets sing,
O'er the wild mountains wandering,
Degraded from his former state,
Cybele's love now turned to hate,
With plaintive cries invoked relief,
Till madness brought an end to grief.

1 Tereus, king of Thrace, for whose story the reader is referred to the sixth book of Ovid's Metamorphoses. Though Anacreon seems to adopt the less usual acceptation of the fable, that it was Philomela, and not Progne, who was transformed into a swallow.

2 Horace has a similar idea in the first ode of the fourth book, which has been thus admirably imitated by Pope :

Thee, dress'd in fancy's airy beam,

Absent I follow through th' extended dream;
Now, now I seize, I clasp thy charms,

And now you burst (ah, cruel!) from my arms;
And swiftly shoot along the mall,

Or softly glide by the canal ;

Now shorn by Cynthia's silver ray,

And now on rolling waters snatch'd away.

3 Atys was a young Phrygian of great beauty, beloved by Cybele, the mother of the gods, who afflicted him with madness for violating his vow of chastity. According to Ovid he was afterwards turned into a pine-tree.