Old Silenus, full of glee,1
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 Bacchæ 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.1

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.2
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.

Then let us anxious thoughts dismiss,
And pledge the cup to scenes of bliss ;
For what avails heart-rending care,
Since mortal man is sorrow's heir,
How short his life's uncertain date?1
Unknown and dark his future state.
But when the brimming bowl I drain
I love to dance along the plain,
With sweet perfumes to bathe my hair,
And frolic with the young and fair.
Let anxious idiots still despise

The joys which wiser men will prize.
Then, while the jovial cup goes round,
To Bacchus let the song resound.

ODE XLII.-ON HIMSELF.

A FRIEND to mirth and harmless sport,
I love the dance which Bacchus taught.
I dearly love to wake the lyre
When wine or love my lays inspire;
But dearer, sweeter joys I prove,
When with gay smiling maids I rove;
While hyacinths sweet odors breathe,
And round my brows their blossoms wreathe,
My heart from envious thoughts is free,2
And even Envy still spares me:

1 The ancient poets all agree in enforcing the necessity of enjoying life, on account of its brevity and uncertainty. Martial says,

I'll live to-morrow, none but fools will say:

To-morrow is too late-live then to day.

If this be true in the sense in which they meant it, how much more forcibly will it apply to our own altered views and circumstances!

2 Such sentiments as these do honor to the poet, and establish his claim to the title of the wise Anacreon.'

From Slander's venom'd tongue I fly,
And shun the shafts of calumny.
Fierce quarrels o'er the festive board
My honest heart has e'er abhorr'd:
But, dancing to the lute's soft strain,
I love to join the blooming train.
O! let us banish barb'rous strife,
And lead a happy, peaceful life.1

ODE XLIII.-ON THE GRASSHOPPER.2

HAPPY insect! all agree

None can be more bless'd than thee;

Thou, for joy and pleasure born,

Sipp'st the honied dew of morn.

Happier than the sceptred king,

Midst the boughs we hear thee sing.
All the season's varied store,

All thy little eyes explore,

Fruits that tempt, and flowers that shine,

Happy insect! all are thine.

Injuring nothing, blamed by none,

Farmers love thee-pretty one!

All rejoice thy voice to hear

Singing blithe when summer's near.
Thee the tuneful Muses love,

Sweetly chirping in the grove;

1 Anacreon seems to have esteemed tranquillity as the greatest blessing of life: thus, ode 39, 'Peaceful pleasures are my theme.'

2 This insect, though called a grasshopper, is certainly of a very different species of locust from that so common in our fields and meadows. Indeed its habit of settling on trees is of itself a sufficient distinction. I am not aware that it has any proper English name, though by some writers it is called the cicada, or cicala.