Then bring the goblet-let me drink,
"Twill only make me sad to think
How near, how very near the day'
When, mix'd with earth and kindred clay,
My soul no more shall taste of joy,
Nor schemes of bliss my mind employ.

ODE XXXVII.-ON THE SPRING.

THE new-born Spring awakes the flowers,
And bathes their buds in dewy showers:
The roses bloom, the Graces wear
Fresh flowery garlands in their hair.
How sleeps the sea in placid rest!
No storms disturb its peaceful breast;
But oft upon its surface green
The diving duck is sporting seen.

From distant skies now comes the crane2
To seek her well-known haunts again ;

1 What can present a stronger picture of the deplorable state of those who only in this life have hope, than this desponding reflection? The prospect of death, considered merely as a termination of the pleasures of life, was too dreadful to be entertained, and therefore he resolves to banish all thoughts of such an event in scenes of mirth and festivity. Is it not to be feared that he has too many imitators, even among those who, enlightened by Revelation, know that this life is but a probationary state, and yet not only neglect its duties, but, judging from their conduct, seldom bestow a single thought on them?

2 The migratory habits of the crane are thus described by Goldsmith in his History of Animated Nature: The crane changes place like a wanderer; he spends the autumn in Europe; he then flies off, probably to some more southern climate, to enjoy a part of the winter; returns to Europe in the spring; crosses up to the north in summer; visits those lakes that are never dry; and then comes down again to make depredations on our cultivated grounds in autumn.'

The smiling sun resumes his sway,
And drives the dismal clouds away;
The teeming earth is big with fruits,
Forth into day the olive shoots;
Rich, juicy clusters deck the vine,
Which soon shall ripen into wine :
The charming sight with joy I see,
To Bacchus welcome-and to me.

ODE XXXVIII.-ON HIMSELF.

TRUE, ah! true, I'm growing old;
Why should not the truth be told?
Still, from youths I never shrink
When the business is to drink.
When the joyous troop advance,
Still I join the merry dance;
I no useless sceptre bear,1
But on high my bottle rear.
Should the grape some hero fire,
Should he wars and fights desire,
Let him fight then, if he please,
I prefer my peaceful ease.

Bring me, then, my gentle page,

Wine that glows with strength and age.2
True, I'm old; but you shall see

1 Among the ancients the leader in the Bacchanalian dances bore a rod or sceptre.

2 However degenerated in other respects, the modern Greeks still know where the best Chian, and what it may cost them;' at least if we may judge from the following extract:

The red wine is the most esteemed in the island: a small part only is exported, the Greeks making too good a use of it themselves. It cannot greatly soothe or propitiate a Turk's feelings towards the despised and infidel Greeks to see them quaffing with keen delight the rich juice of the grape, and

Old Silenus, full of glee,'
Acted to the life by me.

ODE XXXIX.-ON HIMSELF.

WHEN the rosy wine inspires,
Every muse my bosom fires,

All the joys of love and song
Cheer my heart and tune my tongue.

When the joys of wine I share,
Farewell every anxious care;
Sportive winds my sorrows sweep
To the restless, roaring deep.

When I drain the spacious bowl,
Bacchus charms my ravish'd soul,
Perfumed gales from beds of flowers
Bathe in bliss the happy hours.

When with rosy garlands crown'd,
The social cup I pass around;
Rapt in fancy's airy dream,

Peaceful pleasures are my theme.

giving loose in the moment to unbounded gaiety; while he, poor forbidden follower of Islam! must solace himself gravely with the pure fountain, his meagre sherbet, or at most a cup of the coffee of Mocha.'-Carne's Letters from the East, vol. i. p. 63.

1 Silenus was the foster-father and tutor of Bacchus, represented as a little, flat-nosed, bald, fat, tun-bellied, old, drunken fellow, riding on an ass. His picture is thus drawn by Ovid:

Around the Bacche and the Satyrs' throng,
Behind, Silenus drunk lags slow along;
On his dull ass he nods from side to side,
Forbears to fall, yet half forgets to ride.-Eusden.

When I quaff the grape's rich juice,
Bathed in liquid sweets profuse,
Venus claims my votive strain,
Chloe fills my arms again.

:

When the joy-inspiring draught
Frees my soul from anxious thought,
Graver thoughts I fling away,
Sporting with the young and gay.

When I glow with generous wine,
Life's real blessings all are mine,
Joys beyond the reach of fate-
Death is sure in every state.

ODE XL.-CUPID WOUNDED.'

YOUNG Cupid, once, in luckless hour,
Saw and pluck'd his favorite flower,
A blooming rose-whose leaves among
A bee that slept his finger stung.
Loud he scream'd with sudden pain,
Stamp'd and sobb'd-then scream'd again.
He runs-he flies through mead and grove,
To seek the beauteous Queen of Love.
'Ah me! mamma, I'm kill'd,' he cries,

Thy child, thy own dear Cupid dies!

1 The ideas contained in this ode have been made the subject of a song, which was a great favorite, and is still frequently heard. It is however very doubtful whether many who sing it know that they are warbling the strains of a poet who florished more than two thousand years ago; or, in other words, that they are singing a new version of one of the odes of Anacreon.

For, as I play'd on yonder plain,
A winged serpent'-ah! what pain!
A thing the ploughmen call a bee,
With dart of poison wounded me.'
Fair Venus smiling thus replies:
'O dry those pretty pearly eyes;
Think if a little insect's sting
Such painful smart to Cupid bring,
O! what must their keen anguish be
Who're wounded to the heart by thee!'

ODE XLI.-THE BANQUET OF WINE.

COME, let the mantling cups be crown'd,
And let the jovial song go round.
To Bacchus still the strain prolong,
Who taught the dance, and loves the song.
Companion blithe with Cupid seen,
Beloved alike by beauty's queen;
The father, he, of joy and mirth,
To him the Graces owe their birth.
He heals the wounds of pain and grief,
In him the wretched find relief.

When blooming youths present the bowl
Sweet joys alone possess the soul;
And, borne aloft, our sorrows fly

On swift-wing'd storms that sweep the sky.

1 In order to make Cupid express his pain and alarm more strongly, Anacreon has made him persist in calling the bee a serpent. Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyllium.

2 Madame Dacier supposes this to be the passage on which was founded the opinion that the Graces were the daughters of Venus and Bacchus.