For love still beam'd in each bright eye,
And from his lips there seem'd to fly
Sweet gales of rich and rosy wine,
Which shed a fragrance quite divine.
His slow and staggering steps were stay'd
By laughing Cupid's kindly aid.
The garland that entwined his hair
The bard unbound and bade me wear.
Anacreon's burning soul it breathed,
And I with it my brows enwreathed.
E'er since my heart is doom'd to prove
The pleasing pains of lasting love.

ODE LX.-ON THE SPRING.

How sweet through sunny meads to stray,
With Flora's rich profusion gay,
While Zephyr breathes its softest sighs,
And mingled perfumes round us rise!
How sweet beneath the secret shade,
By the vine's broad foliage made,'
With some loved fair to pass the day,
And talk th' unheeded hours away!

1 'The country from hence to Adrianople is the finest in the world. Vines grow wild on all the hills, and the perpetual spring they enjoy makes every thing gay and florishing.'-Lady Montague's Letters.

END OF ANACREON.

And I by instinct sure can tell
The lover's mark-I know it well;
For love in vain concealment tries,

The soul peeps through the tell-tale eyes.1

ODE LVI.-ON HIS OLD AGE.2

ALAS! my youth, my joys have fled,
The snows of age have bleach'd my head.
Tedious, toothless, trembling age,
Must now, alone, my thoughts engage!
Adieu, ye joys which once I knew-
To life, to love, to all, adieu!

Henceforth, unhappy! doom'd to know
Tormenting fears of future woe!

O! how my soul with horror shrinks3
Whene'er my startled fancy thinks

Versed only in the rougher arts of war,

No fields they wound, nor urge the shining share;
No ships they boast to stem the rolling tide,
Nor lowing herds o'er flow'ry meadows guide :
But infants wing the feather'd shaft for flight,
And rein the fiery steed with fond delight.
On every plain the whistling spear alarms,
The neighing courser, and the clang of arms;
For there no food the little heroes taste

Till warlike sweat has earn'd the short repast.

1 The eyes, the windows of the soul, are notorious tell-tales of what is passing within.

2 It is supposed by many that the five following odes were not written by Anacreon; but as Barnes admits them into his edition, and they are given in most other translations, it was thought proper to insert them here.

3 Let the reader contrast this exclamation of the despairing heathen philosopher with the exulting language of Paul the aged' when ready to be offered, and the time of his departure at hand.

Of Pluto's dark and dreary cave,
The chill, the cheerless, gaping grave!
When Death's cold hand has closed these eyes,
And stifled life's last struggling sighs,

In darkness and in dust must I,
Alas! for ever-ever lie!

ODE LVII.-THAT MODERATION ENHANCES ENJOYMENT.

HASTE; haste thee, boy, and bring the bowl,

To quench this fever of the soul;

The copious stream with skill combine,

Add ten parts water, five of wine ;'
The cooling draught will thirst assuage,
Nor in the breast too fiercely rage.

O cease, my friends, for shame, give o’er
These clamorous shouts, this deaf'ning roar ;
This Scythian scene all peace destroys ;2
Turns joy to madness, mirth to noise.
Let cheerful temperance rule the soul,
The best ingredient in the bowl.

1 Hesiod, with all the minuteness of narrative old age,' gives many directions to be observed in the summer season. Among the rest, in book ii., he thus advises us:

With Byblian wine the rural feast be crown'd,

Three parts of water, let the bowl go round.-Cooke.

2 The Scythians were particularly remarkable for their intemperance in drinking, and for quarrelling in their cups.