Thus, with wine and beauty bless'd,
Thus I charm my cares to rest,
Ever joyous, blithe and gay,

Dance the happy hours away.

ODE XXVIII.—ON HIS MISTRESS.1

BEST of painters, lend thy aid,

Draw the lines of light and shade;

Master of the Rhodian art,2

Paint the charmer of my heart;
Absent though the maiden be,
Beauties I'll describe to thee,3

1 The version of this ode, first published in the Guardian, is adopted both by Addison and Fawkes; but however beautiful and spirited it may be thought, another translator, Mr. Girdlestone, shrewdly remarks, that no painter could make a beautiful picture from a description which leaves out the nose. In the original not a single feature is omitted; and therefore the versión above mentioned must be defective.

2 The Rhodians were, according to Pindar, the first people acquainted with the arts of painting and sculpture.

3 To give the reader an opportunity of judging whether or not this picture be too highly drawn, I have transcribed the following passage from a work deservedly held in the highest estimation:

The women, as I have intimated, are handsome; indeed you rarely meet with an ugly face among them. The form of the head, the general cast of countenance, are classical; and in their profile I have frequently found that exquisite, gentlycurving line, we see in ancient Greek statues and medals, (and which we have been accustomed to consider the line of ideal beauty,) identified in real flesh and blood.' Their large, black eyes, with long lashes, and their delicatelyarched eye-brows; the latter, when not denaturalised and spoiled by the too common practice of dying them, are the finest I have ever seen.'-M'Farlane's Constantinople, vol. i. p. 99. And again, The Greek village of Panagea, situated on the sea-shore, to the south of Chesme, is celebrated for

Thou, undazzled, ne'er could'st see.
Paint her dark and glossy hair,
Flowing down her neck so fair:
Farther yet I must presume,
Let it seem to breathe perfume.
Her iv'ry forehead next thy care,
Shining midst her jet-black hair;
Let thy utmost skill be seen
In the dainty space between,
Where by sable archers cross'd,
Where the less'ning shade is lost.

the beauty of its women; but throughout these regions the sex is universally handsome and graceful. Poverty, that cruel enemy to the charms of the person, as well as of the mind, cannot destroy their attractions: the bright, intelligent, large black eye beams, the clear complexion, the exquisite Grecian nose, mouth and chin, the classical contour, are there, in spite of its wrongs; and an innate grace of man. ner and motion developes itself through the covering of rags. I do not seek the recondite causes of this peculiarity; but, be it descent from a superior race, be it the soil and clime, such are the women of Ionia,'-Ibid, p. 201.

Perhaps the reader would be pleased to see a portrait of the fair Ionian' in another light, by a master whose unrivalled pencil has left all competitors at an immeasurable dis

tance:

-You see, this night

Made warriors of more than me. I paused

To look upon her, and her kindled cheek;

Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long hair
As it stream'd o'er her; her blue veins, that rose

Along her most transparent brow; her nostril

Dilated from its symmetry; her lips

Apart; her voice that clove through all the din,
As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash,
Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling; her

Waved arms, more dazzling with their own born whiteness
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up

From a dead soldier's grasp; all these things made
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess

Of victory, or Victory herself,

Come down to hail us hers.

Lord Byron.-Sardanapalus, act 1, scene 1.

Let her liquid eye of fire,
Like Minerva's, awe inspire ;
With Cytherea's softness too
Temper the celestial blue;
Paint her lovely cheek and nose,
Blending milk with blush of rose;
Paint her pretty, pouting lips,
Where the bee its honey sips,
Where Persuasion sits and smiles,
With a thousand winning wiles.
Every pleasing grace must deck
Her pretty dimpled chin and neck ;
And, let nameless beauties dwell
In her bosom's gentle swell.
In a thin and purple dress
Veil this form of loveliness:

Her body hide, her shape express.—
Enough! no farther proof I seek,

She lives-she breathes-soft! did she speak?

ODE XXX.-CUPID TAKEN PRISONER.'

CUPID, once, was rambling found
On the Muses' hallow'd ground;
Straight they weave a rosy chain,
And the little god detain.
Him to Beauty soon they gave,
Mighty Love is Beauty's slave.
Cytherea ransoms brought,

To release her son she sought;

1 This ode is very fine, and the fiction extremely ingenious. I believe Anacreon would inculcate that beauty alone cannot long secure a conquest, but that when wit and beauty meet it is impossible for a lover to disengage himself.'-Madame Dacier.

But no fee, no ransom now,
The happy captive will allow.
Love hath learnt his art too well,
And with Beauty still will dwell.

ODE XXXI.-PLEASING FRENSY.

YES! let me let me drain the bowl,
And pour its pleasures on my soul;
Let Bacchus now his reign employ,
Till reason reels, oppress'd with joy.
Orestes, by the Furies led,1

Barefooted to the mountains fled.

Alcmæon too, in frantic mood,

Like him was stain'd with mother's blood;
But I disclaim such dreadful deeds,
My madness from my joy proceeds.
Then bring the bowl, I cry again,
Who shall that maddening joy restrain?
When Hercules went mad of yore,
The Iphitean bow he bore;2

His rattling quiver's dreadful sound
Spread awe and consternation round.
Great Ajax, too, when madness raged,3
Whole hosts of fancied Greeks engaged;
When, grasping fierce his seven-fold shield,
With Hector's sword he sought the field.*

1 Alcmæon's father had been put to death by his mother's contrivance, whom on that account he slew. Orestes slew his mother Clytemnestra, to revenge the death of his father Agamemnon, who at his return from the Trojan war had been murdered by her and her lover Ægisthus.

2 Iphitus was slain by Hercules, who carried off his bow. 3 When the armor of Achilles was adjudged to Ulysses, Ajax was so enraged at the affront that he went mad; and falling on a flock of sheep, whom he took for Grecians, he first slew them and then himself.

4 Hector and Ajax made an exchange of presents, which

But though with wine I mad should be,
May no such fury seize on me!

No dreadful bow or sword I bear,

A flowery garland decks my hair.
This brimming bowl shall crown my bliss,
Then welcome madness such as this!

ODE XXXII.

ON THE NUMBER OF HIS MISTRESSES.

If thou canst number o'er to me

Every leaf on every tree,

Or count the ceaseless waves that roar

Against the billow-beaten shore,

Thou sufficient skill hast proved;

Thou shalt count the names I've loved.
At Athens first, Minerva's town,
Full five-and-thirty write me down;
But oh! at Corinth, rich and fair,'
What hosts of loved ones had I there!
For beauteous nymphs it bears the sway,
For none so beauteous sure as they.
Next, my lovely Lesbians tell,
Ionians, Carians, those that dwell
At far-famed Rhodes-you may in all

The trifling sum two thousand call.

What! think'st thou that I yet have done ?

Resume thy tablets-one by one,2

gave birth to a proverb, that the presents of enemies are generally fatal;' for with this sword Ajax killed himself.

1 Corinth, the metropolis of Achaia, was famous for beautiful women.

2 The page to whom Anacreon is here making this extrava