ODE VI. THE BANQUET.

WITH glowing wreaths of roses crown'd,
We'll pass the cheerful goblet round;
But with no squeamish, modest sips.
The cup shall kiss our thirsty lips.
And, see, to grace the festive hour,
The maiden seeks our shelter'd bower,'
Whose pretty, slender foot well suits
The music of the soft-toned lutes;
While ivy-wreath'd, her thyrsus fair2
She rustles through the yielding air.
And hark! a fair-hair'd youth begins,3
And as he wakes the warbling strings
His liquid voice breathes odors round,
And mingles with the melting sound.
With golden locks, young Cupid see,
And Bacchus, young and fair as he ;

1 A custom seems to be here alluded to which is still common in Turkey: at the entertainments of persons of consequence dancing girls, called almas, are hired to amuse the company by their performances.

2 The thyrsus was a spear encircled with ivy, and sometimes with vine-leaves, and was carried by those who attended the feasts in honor of Bacchus.

3 The following extract may perhaps elucidate this passage: The summer is already far advanced in this part of the world; and, for some miles round Adrianople, the whole ground is laid out in gardens, and the banks of the rivers are set with rows of fruit-trees, under which all the most considerable Turks divert themselves every evening; not with walking, that is not one of their pleasures; but a set party of them choose out a green spot, where the shade is very thick, and there they spread a carpet, on which they sit drinking their coffee, and are generally attended by some slave with a fine voice, or that plays on some instrument.'-Lady Montague's Letters. Letter to Mr. Pope from Adrianople, April 1st,

With these is lovely Venus too,

Who hastes to join the sportive crew;
While we old men can scarce refrain
To live the life we loved again.

ODE VII.-ON CUPID.'

CUPID once, with staff in hand
(A slender hyacinthine wand),
Slow walking with a tottering pace,
Defied me to the rapid race.
Away we flew o'er flood and fell,
O'er craggy rock and bushy dell,
Till, hastening on with swiftest speed,
A serpent stung me; then indeed 2
My heart forgot its wonted play;
I fainted-sunk-and died away.
The urchin laugh'd at my disgrace,
And while his pinions fann'd my face,

2

My friend,' he cried,' you clearly prove

That you are not a match for Love!'

1 As commentators are by no means agreed either as to the text or meaning of this ode, I have given it the turn which I conceived most agreeable to the genius and style of the author. By a pleasing allegory, he seems to intimate, that under whatever disguise love may appear, his power is equally certain and resistless.

2 It is observed by. Madame Dacier that his being stung by a serpent was a punishment for his insensibility and presumption.

ODE VIII.-ON HIS DREAM.1

PEACEFUL slumbering through the night,
On a purple couch reclined,
Dreams of joy and visions bright
Bacchus sent to charm my mind.

Methought I join'd in rapid race
With flying nymphs-a sportive crew,
And urging on with swiftest pace,
Still kept the lovely game in view.

While youths, as young Lyæus fair,2
With jealous hate, and envy stung,
Who saw my joy, but could not share,
Reviled me as I pass'd along.

A kiss I claim'd-my promised prize ;
But as on pleasure's brink I seem,
The vision fed my cheated eyes:

I woke and lo! 'twas all a dream!

Then, lonely, sad, and angry too,3

To find my high-raised hopes were vain,

1 For the different metre of this ode, and of some others in the collection, I have only to remark that I have deviated from the usual Anacreontic measure for the sake of variety.

2 Lyæus is a name given to Bacchus. It is derived from a Greek verb, signifying to loosen or free, and is, from the circumstance of wine freeing the mind from anxiety, appropriately assigned to him.

3 There is a similar passage in one of Ovid's epistles; in that from Sappho to Phaon, so beautifully translated by Pope. I have transcribed it, in order that the reader may have the pleasure of comparing them :

Oh, night, more pleasing than the brightest day,
When fancy gives what absence takes away,

The dear delusion to renew,

I sigh'd, and sunk to sleep again.

ODE IX.-ON A DOVE.1

PRETTY pigeon, tell me, pray,
Whither speeding? whence away?
Breathing balmy odors round,
Where thy fluttering pinions sound?
Who despatch'd thee through the air?
What commission dost thou bear?
'Anacreon, the blithe and gay,
The master dear whom I obey,
Sent me swift from yonder grove
To seek the lady of his love.

I dare not tell the name she bears,
But beauty's sweetest smile she wears :
Possess'd of every pleasing art,

She reigns supreme o'er every heart.
Fair Venus sold me to the bard,
A little hymn the fix'd reward.2

And dress'd in all its visionary charms,
Restores my fair deserter to my arms!
But when with day the sweet delusions fly,
And all things wake to life and joy, but I,
As if once more forsaken, I complain,
And close my eyes, to dream of you again.

1 To understand this ode properly, we must remember that it was a custom among the ancients, when they undertook long journeys, and were desirous of sending back any news with uncommon expedition, to take tame pigeons along with them. When they thought proper to write to their friends, they let one of these birds loose with letters fastened to its neck: the bird, once released, would never cease its flight till it arrived at its nest and young ones. The same custom is still common among the Turks and other eastern nations.

2 It is impossible not to admire the address and delicacy

So now the poet's page am I,
His courier through the pathless sky;
And sometimes, as you see me now,
The bearer of some tender vow.
He thinks, perhaps, he pleases me,
By saying I shall soon be free;
But though I should the boon obtain,
His willing slave I'll still remain.
For, ah! I do not wish to roam,
Or quit my sweet, my happy home,
Far flying over hill and plain
My wretched, rustic food to gain ;
Or shivering on some tree to stay,
And coo the cheerless hours away:
For now, I feast on dainty bread,
And by the hands I love am fed ;
And when the cup has press'd his lip,
His sweet delicious wine I sip;
And when my heart is light and gay,
I sometimes little frolics play;
Upon his shoulder take my place,
And with my wings o'erspread his face.
Or if to sleep my humor suit,
I perch upon his warbling lute,
And by his careful hand caress'd,
By softest sounds am lull'd to rest.
I've told you all-begone! adieu !
And let me now my flight pursue.
Nay, friend, no longer urge my stay,
For I have prated like a jay.'

of this indirect compliment to his own writings. Venus, the goddess of beauty, and mother of the Graces, is represented as being willing to purchase a little hymn of his composing at the price of one of her favorite doves. This passage is cited by Fawkes as a proof that Anacreon wrote hymns in honor of the gods: but be this as it may, it is certain that few fragments have reached us, and those of doubtful authority.