Farewell! thou hadst a pulse for every dart That Love could scatter from his quiver; Sing of her smile's bewitching power. Her every grace that warms and blesses; The beaming glory of her tresses. The expression here, avos xons, the flower of the hair, is borrowed from Anacreon himself, as appears by a fragment of the poet preserved in Stobaeus: Απεκειρας δ' άπαλης αμωμον ανθος. The purest nectar of its numbers, etc.] Thus, says Brunck, in the prologue to the Satires of Persius : Cantare credas Pegaseium nectar. Melos is the usual reading in this line, and Casaubon has defended it; but « nectar, I think, is much more spirited. Farewell! thou hadst a pulse for every dart, etc.] EPUS GXOTOS, ⚫scopus eras natura, not «speculator, as Barnes very falsely interprets it. Vincentius Obsopæus, upon this passage, contrives to indulge us with a little astrological wisdom, and talks in a style of learned scandal about Venus, male posita cum Marte in domo Saturni," And every woman found in thee a heart, Which thou, with all thy soul, didst give her. And every woman found in thee a heart, etc.] This couplet is not otherwise warranted by the original, than as it dilates the thought which Antipater has figuratively expressed. Τον δε γυνακείων μελέων πλέξαντα ποτ' ῳδας, Teos gave to Greece her treasure, Where's the guest could ever fly him? Where's the nymph could e'er deny him? (a) Thus Scaliger, in his dedicatory verses to Ronsard : Blandus, suaviloquus, dulcis Anacreon. Little's Poems. LUSISSE PUDET.-HOR. Τα ες' ονείρων νεοτέρων φαντασματα, οἷον ληρος. PREFACE. BY THE EDITOR. THE Poems which I take the liberty of publishing were never intended by the Author to pass beyond the circle of his friends. He thought, with some justice, that what are called Occasional Poems must be always insipid and uninteresting to the greater part of their readers. The particular situations in which they were written; the character of the author and of his associates; all these peculiarities must be known and felt before we can enter into the spirit of such compositions. This consideration would have always, I believe, prevented Mr LITTLE from submitting these trifles of the moment to the eye of dispassionate criticism: and, if their posthumous introduction to the world be injustice to his memory, or intrusion on the public, the error must be imputed to the injudicious partiality of friendship. Mr LITTLE died in his one-and-twentieth year; and most of these Poems were written at so early a period, that their errors may claim some indulgence from the critic: their author, as unambitious as indolent, scarce ever looked beyond the moment of composition; he wrote as he pleased, careless whether he pleased as he wrote. It may likewise be remembered that they were all the productions of an age when the passions very often give a colouring too warm to the imagination; and this may palliate, if it cannot excuse, that air of levity which pervades so many of them. The «aurea legge, s' ei piace ei lice, he too much pursued, and too much inculcates. Few can regret this more sincerely than myself; and if my friend had lived, the judgment of riper years would have chastened his mind, and tempered the luxuriance of his fancy. Mr LITTLE gave much of his time to the study of the amatory writers. If ever he expected to find in the ancients that delicacy of sentiment and variety of fancy which are so necessary to refine and animate the poetry of love, he was much disappointed. I know not any one of them who can be regarded as a model in that style; Ovid made love like a rake, and Propertius like a schoolmaster. The mythological allusions of the latter are called erudition by his commentators; but such ostentatious display, upon a subject so simple as love, would be now esteemed vague and puerile, and was, even in his own times, pedantic. It is astonishing that so many critics have preferred him to the pathetic Tibullus; but I believe the defects which a common reader condemns have been looked upon rather as beauties by those erudite men, the commentators, who find a field for their ingenuity and research in his Grecian learning and quaint obscurities. Tibullus abounds with touches of fine and natural feeling. The idea of his unexpected return to Delia, . Tunc veniam subito, etc. is imagined with all the delicate ardour of a lover; and the sentiment of nec te posse carere velim,» however colloquial the expression may have been, is natural and from the heart. But, in my opinion, the poet of Verona possessed more genuine feeling than any of them. His life was, I believe, un Lib. I. eleg. 3. I have found among his papers a novel, in rather an imperfect state, which, as soon as I have arranged and collected it, shall be submitted to the public eye. fortunate; his associates were wild and abandoned; and short a date to allow him to perfect such a taste; but the warmth of his nature took too much advantage of how far he was likely to have succeeded, the critic may the latitude which the morals of those times so crimi-judge from his productions. nally allowed to the passions. All this depraved his imagination, and made it the slave of his senses: but still a native sensibility is often very warmly perceptible; and when he touches on pathos, he reaches the heart immediately. They who have felt the sweets of return to a home from which they have long been absent, will confess the beauty of those simple unaffected lines: His sorrows on the death of his brother are the very tears of poesy; and when he complains of the ingratitude of mankind, even the inexperienced cannot but sympathize with him. I wish I were a poet; I should endeavour to catch, by translation, the spirit of those beauties which I admire so warmly. It seems to have been peculiarly the fate of Catullus, that the better and more valuable part of his poetry has not reached us; for there is confessedly nothing in his extant works to authorize the epithet doctus» so universally bestowed upon him by the ancients. If time had suffered the rest to escape, we perhaps should have found among them some more purely amatory; but of those we possess, can there be a sweeter specimen of warm, yet chastened description, than his loves of Acme and Septimius? and the few little songs of dalliance to Lesbia are distinguished by such an exquisite playfulness, that they have always been assumed as models by the most elegant modern Latinists. Still, I must confess, in the midst of these beauties, -Medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat. 3 It has often been remarked, that the ancients knew nothing of gallantry; and we are told there was too much sincerity in their love to allow them to trifle with the semblance of passion. But I cannot perceive that they were any thing more constant than the moderns: they felt all the same dissipation of the heart, though they knew not those seductive graces by which gallantry almost teaches it to be amiable. Wotton, the learned advocate for the moderns, deserts them in considering this point of comparison, and praises the ancients for their ignorance of such a refinement; but he seems to have collected his notions of gallantry from the insipid fadeurs of the French romances, which are very unlike the sentimental levity, the grata protervitas,» of a Rochester or a Sedley. From what I have had an opportunity of observing, the early poets of our own language were the models which Mr LITTLE selected for imitation. To attain their simplicity (ævo rarissima nostro simplicitas) was his fondest ambition. He could not have aimed at a grace more difficult of attainment;3 and his life was of too In the following Poems, there is a translation of one of his finest Carmina; but I fancy it is only a school-boy's essay, and deserves to be praised for little more than the attempt. * Lucretius. It is a curious illustration of the labour which simplicity requires, that the Ramblers of Johnson, elaborate as they appear, were written with fluency, and seldom required revision; while the simple language of Rousseau, which seems to come flowing from the heart, was the slow production of painful labour, pausing on every word, and balancing every sentence. Where Mr LITTLE was born, or what is the genealogy of his parents, are points in which very few readers can be interested. His life was one of those humble streams which have scarcely a name in the map of life, and the traveller may pass it by without inquiring its source or direction. His character was well known to all who were acquainted with him; for he had too much vanity to hide its virtues, and not enough of art to conceal its defects. The lighter traits of his mind may be traced perhaps in his writings; but the few for which he was valued live only in the remembrance of his friends. TO J. ATK-NS-N, ESQ. MY DEAR SIR, T. M. I FEEL a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend LITTLE's Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted: and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is, you have them in their original form : Non possunt nostros multæ, Faustine, lituræ I am convinced, however, that though not quite a casuiste relâché, you have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive juvenilia which he published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of Bembo's poems prevent him from making a very good cardinal. Believe me, my dear friend, April 19, 1802. POEMS, ETC. TO JULIA. T. M. IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS. Way, let the stingless critic chide Shall say, while o'er my simple theme TO MRS IF, in the dream that hovers If joys from sleep I borrow, Sure thou 'It forgive me this; For he who wakes to sorrow At least may dream of bliss! Oh! if thou art, in seeming, All that I've e'er required: Oh! if I feel, in dreaming, All that I've e'er desired; Wilt thou forgive my taking INCONSTANCY. AND do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, Oh, woman! your heart is a pitiful treasure; And Mahomet's doctrine was not too severe, When he thought you were only materials of pleasure, And reason and thinking were out of your sphere. By your heart, when the fond sighing lover can win it, He thinks that an age of anxiety 's paid; But, oh! while he 's blest, let him die on the minuteIf he live but a day, he 'll be surely betray'd. IMITATION OF CATULLUS.' TO HIMSELF. Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc. CEASE the sighing fool to play; Such were the hours that once were thine; Is to be proud and frigid too; Nor follow where the wanton flies, Nor sue the bliss that she denies. False maid! he bids farewell to thee, To love, and all love's misery. Oh! none. And he who loved before EPIGRAM.' YOUR mother says, my little Venus, TO JULIA. THOUGH Fate, my girl, may bid us part, Our souls it cannot, shall not, sever; The heart will seek its kindred heart, And cling to it as close as ever. But must we, must we part indeed? Is all our dream of rapture over? And does not Julia's bosom bleed To leave so dear, so fond a lover? Does she too mourn?-Perhaps she may; Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting: But why is Julia's eye so gay, If Julia's heart like mine is beating? I oft have loved the brilliant glow Of rapture in her blue eye streamingBut can the bosom bleed with woe, While joy is in the glances beaming? No, no!-Yet, love, I will not chide, Although your heart were fond of roving: Nor that, nor all the world beside, Could keep your faithful boy from loving. You'll soon be distant from his eye, And, with you, all that 's worth possessing. Oh! then it will be sweet to die, When life has lost its only blessing! SONG. SWEET seducer! blandly smiling; Why that little wanton blushing, Glancing eye, and bosom flushing! Flushing warm, and wily glancingAll is lovely, all entrancing! Turn away those lips of blisses- Oh! be less, be less enchanting; I believe this epigram is originally French.-E. NATURE'S LABELS. A FRAGMENT. In vain we fondly strive to trace In vain we dwell on lines and crosses, And many a sage and learned skull Has peep'd through windows dark and dull! The argument most apt and ample LABEL FIRST. Within this vase there lies enshrined Now, sirs, imagine, if you 're able, LABEL SECOND. When I composed the fustian brain TO MRS M SWEET lady! look not thus again : Those little pouting smiles recal A maid remember'd now with pain, Who was my love, my life, my all! Oh! while this heart delirious took Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look, And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh! Yes, I did love her-madly love She was the sweetest, best deceiver! And oft she swore she 'd never rove! And I was destined to believe her! Then, lady, do not wear the smile Again might steal my heart away. And when the spell that stole my mind I fear the heart which she resign'd SONG. WHY, the world are all thinking about it; And, as for myself, I can swear, If I fancied that heaven were without it, If Mahomet would but receive me, I'd worship the eyes of his saints. But why should I think of a trip To the Prophet's seraglio above, When Phillida gives me her lip, As my own little heaven of love? Oh, Phillis! that kiss may be sweeter TO JULIA. Mock me no more with love's beguiling dream, I've heard you oft eternal truth declare; Your heart was only mine, I once believed. Ah! shall I say that all your vows were air? And must I say, my hopes were all deceived? Vow, then, no longer that our souls are twined, That all our joys are felt with mutual zeal : Julia! 't is pity, pity makes you kind; You know I love, and you would seem to feel. But shall I still go revel in those arms On bliss in which affection takes no part? No, no! farewell! you give me but your charms, When I had fondly thought you gave your heart. IMPROMPTU. Look in my eyes, my blushing fair! Thou 'It see thyself reflected there; And, as I gaze on thine, I see |