The epigram recalls the satire of Butler in "Hudibras" (Part IIL Cauto iii. line 243;:

For those that fly may fight again,

Which he can never do that's slain.

CONTENTMENT (Jacobs I. 42, x.).
Translated by the late Colonel Mure, of Caldwell.
What's Gyges or his gold to me!
His royal state or rich array?
From envy's taint my breast is free,
I covet no proud tyrant's sway.
I envy not the gods in heaven!
The gods to me my lot have given.
That lot, for good or ill, I'll bear,
And for no other man's I care.

Archilochus was contemporary with Gyges, whose wealth, like that of Croesus, early passed into a proverb.

Spenser in a single line expresses much ("Faerie Queene," Book I. Canto ii., 35):

The noblest mind the best contentment has.

Cowley, in a portion of his epitaph for himself (translated from the Latin by Addison), describes his own happiness in his retirement:

With decent poverty content,
His hours of ease not idly spent;
To fortune's goods a foe profest,
And hating wealth by all carest.

Some other pieces on this subject will be found under Martyn.

ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL (Jacobs I. 43, xiv.).
Translated by the late Colonel Mure, of Caldwell.

My soul, my soul, by cares past all relief
Distracted sore, bear up! with manly breast,
And dauntless mien, each fresh assault of grief
Encountering. By hostile weapons pressed,
Stand firm. Let no unlooked-for triumph move
To empty exultation; no defeat

Cast down. But still let moderation prove
Of life's uncertain cup the bitter and the sweet.

Philemon shows that an equable frame of mind is the possession of a wise man. Cumberland thus translates the epigram in the "Observer" (No. 139):

Extremes of fortune are true wisdom's test,

And he's of men most wise, who bears them best.

Agathias in an amusing epigram (Jacobs IV. 25, Ixiv.) shows the result of unexpected good fortune. The translation is by Philip Smyth: Euseia, rich in gold and land, To a poor fisher gave her hand. Ophion, dazzled with his gain, Grew haughty, petulant, and vain. Venus, says Fortune, looking sly, Who play'd this trick, pray-you or I?

ALCMAN.

Flourished B.C. 650. He was probably a native of Lydia, but was brought early to Lacedæmon. He is supposed to have been a slave in the family of Agesidas, a Spartan citizen, by whom he was emancipated.

NIGHT (Frag. X. Ed. Welcker).

Translated by the late Colonel Mure, of Caldwell.

Now o'er the drowsy earth still night prevails.
Calm sleep the mountain tops and shady vales,
The rugged cliffs and hollow glens;

The wild beasts slumber in their dens;
The cattle on the hills. Deep in the sea
The countless finny race and monster brood
Tranquil repose. Even the busy bee
Forgets her daily toil. The silent wood
No more with noisy hum of insect rings;

And all the feather'd tribes, by gentle sleep subdued,
Roost in the glade, and hang their drooping wings.

Colonel Mure justly speaks of this as "a description unsurpassed. perhaps unrivalled, by any similar passage in the Greek or any other anguage.'

Very different as are the following lines by the Scotch poet, Robert Fergusson, it must be acknowledged that they are not unworthy of a place beside those of Alcman:

Now murky shades surround the pole:
Darkness lords without control;

To the notes of buzzing owl,

Lions roar and tigers howl,

Fright'ning from their azure shrine,
Stars that wont in orbs to shine:
Now the sailor's storm-tost bark
Knows no blest celestial mark,
While in the briny-troubled deep,
Dolphins change their sport for sleep:
Ghosts and frightful spectres gaunt,
Churchyard's dreary footsteps haunt,
And brush with withered arms the dews
That fall upon the drooping yews.

Colonel Mure's rendering of Aleman's fragment, beautiful as it is, has one error. He translates:

Deep in the sea

The countless finny race and monster brood
Tranquil repose.

But for "countless finny race there is nothing corresponding in the Greek. Aleman, in reference to the dwellers in the deep, uses kvúðaða correctly rendered "monster brood." There are some large fish or aquatic mammals which are known to sleep in the night, but the smaller kinds of the finny race are particularly active at that time. The Greeks, who were singularly exact to nature in their writings, would not be likely to make the mistake into which Colonel Mure has inadvertently fallen in paraphrasing the original.

SAPPHO.

This poetess flourished B.C. 610. She was a native of Mitylene in the island of Lesbos. She married, but was early leit a widow. She is said to have then fixed her affections on a youth named Phuon, who. however, did not return her love, in consequence of which she cast herself into the sea from a promontory in Acarnania, called Leucate. the belief being that those who survived the leap would be cured of hopeless love. She perished in the experiment.

THE LOVER'S ADDRESS TO HIS MISTRESS ("Sapphonis Fragmenta," No. II.).

Translated by Ambrose Philips.

Bless'd as th' immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak and sweetly smile.

'Twas this depriv'd my soul of rest,
And rais'd such tumults in my breast;
For while I gaz'd, in transport tost,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost:

My bosom glow'd; the subtle flame
Ran quick through all my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung;
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd;
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play;

I fainted, sank, and died away.

5

Addison, in the 229th No. of the "Spectator," says of this translation: It is written in the very spirit of Sappho, and as near the Greek as the genius of our language will possibly suffer." He gives also the criticism of Longinus on this celebrated ode, who observes, "that this description of love in Sappho is an exact copy of nature, and that all the circumstances, which follow one another in such a hurry of sentiments, notwithstanding they appear repugnant to cach other, are really such as happen in the frenzies of love."

. Dr. Farmer has decided the question of Shakespeare's learning; yet many passages occur in his Plays, which closely resemble some in classic authors; nor is this to be wondered at; for both copied nature, and a great critic has observed that "Wit is transitory, but Nature and Passion are eternal.”

It is impossible to read the following passage from the "Merchant of Venice," in which Bassanio speaks to Portia (Act III. sc. 2), without being struck by the close similarity of sentiment with the ode of Sappho :

Madam, you have bereft me of all words,
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins:
And there is such confusion in my powers,
As, after some oration fairly spoke
By a beloved prince, there doth appear
Among the buzzing pleased multitude;
Where every something, being blent together,
Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,
Express'd, and not express'd.

So, also, in "Troilus and Cressida" a similar passage is found, where Troilus, meditating on his approaching possession of Cressida, says (Act III. sc. 2):

I am giddy: expectation whirls me round.

The imaginary relish is so sweet

That it enchants my sense.

THE FOREST COUCH ("Sapphonis Fragmenta," No. IV.).

Translated by C.

The cool, low-babbling stream
Mid quince-groves deep,

And gently-rustling leaves

Bring on soft sleep.

Our own poets often paint scenes of rural repose, but there are few passages which in so small a compass express so much as the pretty picture which Sappho has left to us. Gay, in "Rural Sports'

(Canto I. 57), has:

O lead me, guard me from the sultry hours,
Hide me, ye forests, in your closest bowers,
Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwines;
And with the beech a mutual shade combines;
Where flows the murmuring brook inviting dreams,
Where bordering hazel overhangs the streams,

*

Upon the mossy couch my limbs I cast,

And e'en at noon the sweets of evening taste.

So Thomson ("Castle of Indolence," Canto I. Stanza 58):

To noontide shades incontinent he ran

Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound.

A living poet, Matthew Arnold, in "The Harp Player on Etna, Apollo,' has:

In the moon-light the shepherds,

Soft-lull'd by the rills,

Lie wrapt in their blankets

Asleep on the hills.

A MAID IN LOVE (“Sapphonis Fragmenta," No. XXIII.).

Translated by Moore.

Oh, my sweet mother, 'tis in vain-
I cannot weave as once I wove-
So wilder'd is my heart and brain

With thinking of that youth I love.

Horace may have had this fragment in mind when writing the 12th ode of his third book, where there is a passage, which Duncombe thus translates:

The winged boy in wanton play,
Thy work and basket steals away: