I'll count thee o'er my Syrian fair,
And Egypt too must claim a share;
And fertile Creta yet remains,1

Where Love his empire still maintains.

The dark-eyed nymphs that shared my flame,
At Spain and Afric, shall I name?

To sultry India's farthest pole,

Whose dusky charms have fired my soul!

ODE XXXIII.-ON A SWALLOW.

PRETTY, twittering, fickle guest,
Here you build your summer nest;
But, ere storms deface the sky,
Back to warmer worlds you fly;2

gant enumeration, may well be supposed to drop his tablets in astonishment, as the original expression is add still to the wax.' The ancients wrote on tablets made of this material with a pointed instrument called a stylus or style, the upper end of which was flat and blunt, for the purpose of making erasures. Hence arose the term an author's style,' as applied to his peculiar mode of expression.

1 Anacreon, to denote its fertility, calls it Crete abounding in all things. It is mentioned by the ancient poets as having a hundred cities.

2'Since the days of Anacreon to our own, this is a problem in natural history which has never been solved. Among the ancients it was a generally received opinion that swallows and other birds, on the approach of winter, crossed the sea in search of warmer climates; but more accurate observers have taught us to doubt the truth of this opinion. Pecklinius, in his book De Aëris et Elementi defectu, et Vita sub Aquis,' assures us that swallows retire to the bottom of the water during the winter; and that it is common for the fishermen on the coasts of the Baltic to take them in their nets in large knots, clinging together by their bills and claws; and that on their being brought into a warm room, they will separate, and begin to flutter about as in spring. Kircher, in his book De Mundus Subterraneus,' affirms the same, and that in the

ANAC.

с

To Memphis, or the banks of Nile,
Where bright suns for ever smile.
But, alas! nor peace nor rest
Dwells within my hapless breast:
Love still builds and hatches there,
Full-fledged loves for flight prepare ;
Some, unhatch'd, yet quiet dwell,
Some just struggling through the shell,
While their ceaseless chirping noise
Every hope of peace destroys.
Some usurp the parent's care,
And the younger nestlings rear ;

These, when grown, will young ones breed ;
Others still to them succeed.

Thus, alas! what hope remains

What can ease my bosom's pains,

Since within its secret cell

Loves innumerable dwell?

ODE XXXIV.-TO HIS MISTRESS.

FLY me not, thou scornful fair,

Why reject me so?

Is it that my scanty hair

Is whiter than the snow?

Beauty's blooming flower is thine,
And on thy cheek it glows;
But do not lilies brighter shine
When blended with the rose?

northern countries they hide themselves under ground in the winter, whence they are often dug out.'-Longuepierre.

If the reader be desirous of farther information on this point, he may consult Buffon's Natural History, or Goldsmith's Animated Nature.

ODE XXXV.

ON A PICTURE REPRESENTING EUROPA.1

THIS bull, my boy, is surely meant
The mighty Jove to represent,
Since on his back he seems to bear
Through pathless seas a Tyrian fair.
With steady strength he stems the tide,
His hoofs the billows dash aside;
For sure no other bull but he

Would from his lovely heifers flee,
And tempt the dangers of the sea.

ODE XXXVI.-LIFE TO BE ENJOYED.

WHY prate to me of critic rules,
And jargon of the jangling schools?
Your learned dogmas, prithee, spare,
They're useless all-not worth my care.
I'll hear thee gladly, canst thou tell
The happy art of living well;
How best to mix the sparkling wine,
To make the mellow draught divine ;
How best to please the lovely fair,
For this indeed is worth my care.
Alas! each day, each hour I know,
My hoary locks still whiter grow:

1 We must here imagine that we have before us a picture or medal representing the fable of Europa. According to the poets, it was from this princess that our quarter of the globe derives its name.

Yet sigh no more, but think of love,
For know, thou art the wife of Jove;

Then learn to bear thy future fame

When earth's wide continent shall boast thy name.

Francis' Horace, book iii. ode 27.

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 deplorab state of those who only in this life have hope, than this d sponding reflection? The prospect of death, considered mere as a termination of the pleasures of life, was too dreadful be entertained, and therefore he resolves to banish all though of such an event in scenes of mirth and festivity. Is it n to be feared that he has too many imitators, even among tho who, enlightened by Revelation, know that this life is but probationary state, and yet not only neglect its duties, bu judging from their conduct, seldom bestow a single thoug on them?

2 The migratory habits of the crane are thus described Goldsmith in his History of Animated Nature: The cra changes place like a wanderer; he spends the autumn Europe; he then flies off, probably to some more southe climate, to enjoy a part of the winter; returns to Europe the spring; crosses up to the north in summer; visits tho lakes that are never dry; and then comes down again to mal 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 ex

tract:

'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