To man she gave the flame refined,
The spark of Heaven-a thinking mind!
And had she no surpassing treasure
For thee, oh woman! child of pleasure?
She gave thee beauty-shaft of eyes,
That every shaft of war outflies!
She gave thee beauty-blush of fire,
That bids the flames of war retire!
Woman! be fair, we must adore thee;
Smile, and a world is weak before thee!
ONCE in each revolving year,
Gentle bird! we find thee here,
When nature wears her summer-vest,
Thou com'st to weave thy simple nest;
But when the chilling winter lowers,
Again thou seek'st the genial bowers
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile,
Where sunny hours of verdure smile.
And thus thy wing of freedom roves,
Alas! unlike the plumed loves,
That linger in this hapless breast,
And never, never change their nest!
To man she gave the flame refined,
The spark of Heaven-a thinking mind!] In my first with attempt to translate this ode, I had interpreted pornμa, Baxter and Barnes, as implying courage and military virtue; but I do not think that the gallantry of the idea suffers by the import which I have now given to it. For, why need we consider this possession of wisdom as exclusive? and in truth, as the design of Anacreon is to estimate the treasure of beauty, above all the rest which Nature has distributed, it is perhaps even refining upon the delicacy of the compliment, to prefer the radiance of female charms to the cold illumination of wisdom and prudence; and to think that women's eyes are
From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. She gave thee beauty-shaft of eyes,
That every shaft of war outflies!] Thus Achilles Tatius: καλλος οξύτερον τιτρώσκει βέλους, και δια των οφ θαλμών εις την ψυχήν καταρρει, Οφθαλμος γαρ οδος πρωτ "Beauty wounds more swiftly than the τικο τραυματι, arrow, and passes through the eye to the very soul; for the eye is the inlet to the wounds of love."
Woman! be fair, we must adore thee;
Smile, and a world is weak before thee !] Longepierre's remark here is very ingenious: "The Romans," says he, "were so convinced of the power of beauty, that they used a word implying strength in the place of the epithet beautiful. Thus Plautus, act 2, scene 2, Bacchid.
Sed Bacchis etiam fortis tibi visa.
'Fortis, id est formosa,' say Servius and Nonius."
1 This is another ode addressed to the swallow. Alberti has imitated both in one poem, beginning
Still every year, and all the year,
A flight of loves engender here;
And some their infant plumage try,
And on a tender winglet fly;
While in the shell, impregn'd with fires,
Cluster a thousand more desires;
Some from their tiny prisons peeping,
And some in formless embryo sleeping
My bosom, like the vernal groves,
Resounds with little warbling loves;
One urchin imps the other's feather,
Then twin-desires they wing together,
And still as they have learn'd to soar,
The wanton babies teem with more.
But is there then no kindly art,
To chase these Cupids from my heart?
No, no! I fear, alas! I fear
They will for ever nestle here!
And, by their turban'd brows alone,
The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover's glowing eyes,
The inlet to his bosom lies;
Through them we see the small faint mark, Where Love has dropp'd his burning spark!
As in the Lemnian caves of fire,
The mate of her who nursed desire
Moulded the glowing steel, to form
Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;
While Venus every barb imbues
With droppings of her honied dews;
And Love (alas! the victim-heart)
Tinges with gall the burning dart;
Once, to this Lemnian cave of flame,
The crested Lord of Battles came;
'T was from the ranks of war he rush'd,
His spear with many a life-drop blush'd!
He saw the mystic darts, and smiled
Derision on the archer-child.
"And dost thou smile?" said little Love;
"Take this dart, and thou may'st prove,
But in the lover's glowing eyes,
The inlet to his bosom lies.] "We cannot see into the heart," says Madame Dacier. But the lover answersIl cor ne gli occhi e ne la fronte ho scritto.
Monsieur La Fosse has given the following lines, as enlarging on the thought of Anacreon:
Lorsque je vois un amant,
Il cache en vain son tourment,
A le trahir tout conspire,
Sa langueur, son embarras,
Tout ce qu'il peut faire ou dire,
Même ce qu'il ne dit pas.
In vain the lover tries to veil
The flame which in his bosom lies;
His cheek's confusion tells the tale,
We read it in his languid eyes.
And though his words the heart betray,
His silence speaks e'en more than they.
1 This ode is referred to by La Mothe le Vayer, who, I believe, was the author of that curious little work, called "Hexameron Rustique." He makes use of this, as well as the thirty-fifth, in his ingenious but indelicate explanation of Homer's Cave of the Nymphs. Journée Quatrième.
And Love (alas! the victim heart)
Tinges with gall the burning dart.] Thus Claudian-
Labuntur gemini fontes, hic dulcis, amarus
Alter, et infusis corrumpit mella venenis,
Unde Cupidineas armavit fama sagittas.
In Cyprus' isle two rippling fountains fall,
And one with honey flows, and one with gall;
In these, if we may take the tale from fame,
The son of Venus dips his darts of flame.
See the ninety-first emblem of Alciatus, on the close connexion which subsists between sweets and bitterness. "Apes ideo pungunt (says Petronius) quia ubi dulce, ibi et acidum invenies.
The allegorical description of Cupid's employment, in Horace, may vie with this before us in fancy, though not in delicacy:
Semper ardentes acuens sagittas
And Cupid, sharpening all his fiery darts
Upon a whetstone stain'd with blood of hearts. Secundus has borrowed this, but has somewhat softened the image by the omission of the epithet "cruenta."
Fallor an ardentes acuebat cote sagittas. Eleg. 1.
That though they pass the breeze's flight,
My bolts are not so feathery light."
He took the shaft-and, oh! thy look,
Sweet Venus! when the shaft he took-
He sigh'd, and felt the urchin's art;
He sigh'd, in agony of heart,
"It is not light-I die with pain!
Take-take thy arrow back again."
"No," said the child, " it must not be,
That little dart was made for thee!"
YES-loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love, more painful still;
Yes-loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still, etc.] Monsieur Menage, in the following Anacreontic, enforces the neces sity of loving:
Περι του δειν φιλήσει.
Προς Πέτρος Δανιηλα Υιττον,
Μεγα θαύμα των κοιδων
Χαρίτων θάλος Χεττό,
Φιλέωμεν, ως εταιρία
Φίλεησαν οι σοφισταί,
Φίλησε σεμνος ανήρ,
Το τέκνον του Σωφρονίσκου,
Σοφίης πατηρ απασης.
Τι δ' άνευ γενοιτ' Έρωτος ;
Ακόνη μεν εστι ψυχής. (α)
Πτερύγεσσιν εις Ολυμπον
Κατακειμένους αναιρεί,
Βραδιας τετηγμένοισι
Βέλεεσσι εξαγείρει,
Πυρί λαμπάδος φαίίνω
Ρυπαρωτέρους καθαιρεί.
Φιλιώμεν ουν, ΥΕΤΤΕ,
Φιλιωμέν, ως εταιρεί
Αδίκως δε λοιδορούντι
Αγίους έρωτας ημων
Κακον εύξομαι το μουνον
Ίνα μη δύναιτ' εκείνος
Φιλέειν τε και φελείσθα
TO PETER DANIEL HUETT. Thou! of tuneful bards the first, Thou! by all the Graces nursed; Friend each other friend above, Come with me, and learn to love. Loving is a simple lore,
Graver men have learn'd before;
Nay, the boast of former ages,
Wisest of the wisest sages,
Sophroniscus' prudent son,
Was by Love's illusion won.
Oh how heavy life would move,
If we knew not how to love!
Love's a whetstone to the mind;
Thus 'tis pointed, thus refined.
When the soul dejected lies,
Love can waft it to the skies;
When in languor sleeps the heart,
Love can wake it with his dart;
When the mind is dull and dark,
Love can light it with his spark!
Come, oh! come then, let us haste
All the bliss of love to taste;
Let us love both night and day,
Let us love our lives away!
And when hearts, from loving free
(If indeed such hearts there be,)
Frown upon our gentle flame,
And the sweet delusion blame;
But surely 'tis the worst of pain,
To love and not be loved again!
Affection now has fled from earth,
Nor fire of genius, light of birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile
From Beauty's cheek one favouring smile.
Gold is the woman's only theme,
Gold is the woman's only dream.
Oh! never be that wretch forgiven-
Forgive him not, indignant Heaven!—
Whose grovelling eyes could first adore,
Whose heart could pant for sordid ore.
Since that devoted thirst began,
Man has forgot to feel for man;
The pulse of social life is dead,
And all its fonder feelings fled!
War too has sullied Nature's charms,
For gold provokes the world to arms!
And oh the worst of all its art,
I feel it breaks the lover's heart!
Cupid bade me wing my pace,
And try with him the rapid race.
O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep,
With weary foot I panting flew,
My brow was chill with drops of dew
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying;
And now I thought the spark had fled,
When Cupid hover'd o'er my head,
And, fanning light his breezy plume,
Recall'd me from my languid gloom;
Then said, in accents half-reproving,
"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"
'Twas in an airy dream of night,
I fancied that I wing'd my flight
On pinions fleeter than the wind,
While little Love, whose feet were twined
(I know not why) with chains of lead,
Pursued me as I trembling fled;
Pursued and could I e'er have thought?—
Swift as the moment I was caught!
What does the wanton Fancy mean
By such a strange, illusive scene?
I fear she whispers to my breast,
That you, my girl, have stolen my rest;
That though my fancy, for a while,
Has hung on many a woman's smile,
I soon dissolved the passing vow,
And ne'er was caught by Love till now!
ARM'D with hyacinthine rod
(Arms enough for such a god,)
This shall be my only curse,
(Could I, could I wish them worse?)
May they ne'er the rapture prove,
Of the smile from lips we love!
STREW me a breathing bed of leaves
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
Nunc propero, nunc ire piget; rursumque redire
Pœnitet; et pudor est stare via media.
Ecce tacent voces hominum, strepitusque ferarum,
Et volucrum cantus, turbaque fida canum.
Solus ego ex cunctis paveo somnumque torumque,
Et sequor imperium, sæve Cupido, tuum.
Upon my couch I lay, at night profound,
My languid eyes in magic slumber bound,
When Cupid came and snatch'd me from my bed,
And forced me many a weary way to tread.
"What! (said the god) shall you, whose vows are known,
Who love so many nymphs, thus sleep alone?"
I rise and follow; all the night I stray,
Unshelter'd, trembling, doubtful of my way.
Tracing with naked foot the painful track,
Loth to proceed, yet fearful to go back.
Yes, at that hour, when Nature seems interr'd,
Nor warbling birds, nor lowing flocks are heard;
I, I alone, a fugitive from rest,
Passion my guide, and madness in my breast,
Wander the world around, unknowing where,
The slave of love, the victim of despair!
My brow was chill with drops of dew.] I have followed those who read τειρεν ίδρως for πειρεν ύδρος; the former is partly authorized by the MS. which reads pv 8pw5.
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying, etc.] In the original, he says his heart flew to his nose; but our manner more naturally transfers it to the lips. Such is the effect that Plate tells us he felt from a kiss, in a distich, quoted by Aulus Gellius:
Την ψυχήν, Αγαθώνα φίλων, επι χείλεσιν εσχον
Ήλθε γαρ η τλήμων ως διαβησόμενη.
Whene'er thy nectar'd kiss I sip,
And drink thy breath, in melting twine,
My soul then flutters to my lip,
Ready to fly and mix with thine.
Aulus Gellius subjoins a paraphrase of this epigram, in
which mark the effemination of the Latin language.
1 Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet mar-which we find many of those mignardises of expression, ried very late in life. I do not perceive any thing in the ode which seems to allude to matrimony, except it be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I must confess that I agree in the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure to marry.
2 The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love. Longepierre has quoted an ancient epigram (I do not know where he found it,) which has some similitude to this ode:
Lecto compositus, vix prima silentia noctis
Carpebam, et somno lumina victa dabam;
Cum me sevus Amor prensum, sursumque capillis
Excitat, et lacerum pervigilare jubet.
Tu famulus meus, inquit, ames cum mille puellas,
Solus Io, solus, dure jacere potes?
Exilio et pedibus nudis, tonicaque soluta,
Omne iter impedio, nullum iter expedio.
And, fanning light his breezy plume,
Recall'd me from my languid gloom.] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."-La Fosse.
1 We here have the poet, in his true attributes, reclining preters have ruined the picture by making Eps the name upon myrtles, with Cupid for his cup-bearer. Some interof his slave. None but Love should fill the goblet of Anacreon. Sappho has assigned this office to Venus, in a fragΕλθε, Κύπρο, Χρυσελπισία εν κυλίκεσσιν άβροις συμπ μεμιγμένον θαλίαισι νεκταρ οινοχοουσα τουτοισι τοις εταίροις εμοις γε και σοις.
Which may be thus paraphrased:
Hither, Venus! queen of kisses,
This shall be the night of blisses!
And, while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this delicious hour of joy.
Young Love shall be my goblet-boy;
Folding his little golden vest,
With cinctures, round his snowy breast,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!
Swift as the wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal:
A scanty dust to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 't will leave behind.
Why do we shed the rose's bloom
Upon the cold, insensate tomb!
Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,
Affect the slumbering chill of death?
No, no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
But
now, while every pulse is glowing,
Now let me breathe the balsam flowing;
Now let the rose with blush of fire,
Upon my brow its scent expire;
And bring the nymph with floating eye,
Oh! she will teach me how to die!
Yes, Cupid! ere my soul retire,
To join the blest Elysian choir,
With wine, and love, and blisses dear,
I'll make my own Elysium here!
"T WAS noon of night, when round the pole
The sullen Bear is seen to roll;
And mortals, wearied with the day,
Are slumbering all their cares away:
An infant, at that dreary hour,
Came weeping to my silent bower,
And waked me with a piteous prayer,
To save him from the midnight air!
"And who art thou," I waking cry,
That bid'st my blissful visions fly?"
This the night, to friendship dear,
Thou shalt be our Hebe here.
Fill the golden brimmer high,
Let it sparkle like thine eye!
Bid the rosy current gush,
Let it mantle like thy blush!
Venus! hast thou e'er above
Seen a feast so rich in love?
Not a soul that is not mine!
Not a soul that is not thine!
"Compare with this ode (says the German commentator) the beautiful poem in Ramler's Lyr. Blumenlese, lib. iv. p. 296. Amor als Diener."
1 Monsieur Bernarde, the author of l'Art d'aimer, has written a ballet called "Les Surprises de l'Amour," in which the subject of the third entrée is Anacreon, and the story of this ode suggests one of the scenes. Œuvres de Bernard, Anac. scene 4th.
The German annotator refers us here to an imitation by Uz, lib. iii. "Amor und sein Bruder," and a poem of Kleist die Heilung. La Fontaine has translated, or rather imitated,
"And who art thou," I waking cry,
"That bid'st my blissful visions fly?] Anacreon appears to have been a voluptuary even in dreaming, by the lively regret which he expresses at being disturbed from his visionary enjoyments. See the odes x. and xxxvii.
"O gentle sire!" the infant said,
In pity take me to thy shed;
Nor fear deceit : a lonely child
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
Illumes the drear and misty way!"
I hear the baby's tale of woe;
I hear the bitter night-winds blow;
And, sighing for his piteous fate,
I trimm'd my lamp, and oped the gate.
"T was Love! the little wandering sprite,
His pinion sparkled through the night!
I knew him by his bow and dart;
I knew him by my fluttering heart!
I take him in, and fondly raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And in my hand and bosom hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray
Had warm'd his anxious fears away;
"I pray thee," said the wanton child
(My bosom trembled as he smiled,)
"I pray thee let me try my bow,
For through the rain I've wander'd so,
That much I fear the ceaseless shower
Has injured its elastic power."
The fatal bow the urchin drew;
Swift from the string the arrow flew ;
Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame,
And to my very soul it came!
"Fare thee well," I heard him say,
As laughing wild he wing'd away;
"Fare thee well, for now I know
The rain has not relax'd my bow;
It still can send a maddening dart,
As thou shalt own with all thy heart!
Oн thou, of all creation blest,
Sweet insect! that delight'st to rest
Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,
To drink the dew that morning drops,
And chirp thy song with such a glee,
That happiest kings may envy thee!
'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite, etc.] See the beautiful description of Cupid, by Muschus, in his first idy' 1 Father Rapin, in a Latin ode addressed to the grasshop per, has preserved some of the thoughts of our author: O quæ virenti graminis in toro, Cicada, blande sidis, et herbidos Saltus oberras, otiosos Ingeniosa ciere cantus. Seu forte adultis floribus incubas, Coli caducis ebria fletibus, ete
Oh thou, that on the grassy bed
Which Nature's vernal hand has spread,
Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song,
The dewy herbs and leaves among!
Whether thou liest ou springing flowers,
Drunk with the balmy morning-showers,
Or, etc.
See what Licetus says about grasshoppers, cap. 93 and 185
And chirp thy song with such a glee, etc.] "Some authors have affirmed (says Madame Dacier,) that it is only male
Whatever decks the velvet field,
Whate'er the circling seasons yield,
Whatever buds, whatever blows,
For thee it buds, for thee it grows.
Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear,
To him thy friendly notes are dear;
For thou art mild as matin dew,
And still, when summer's flowery hue
Begins to paint the bloomy plain,
We hear thy sweet prophetic strain;
Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear,
And bless the notes and thee revere!
The Muses love thy shrilly tone;
Apollo calls thee all his own;
'Twas he who gave that voice to thee,
'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.
Unworn by age's dim decline,
The fadeless blooms of youth are thine.
Melodious insect! child of earth!
In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth;
Exempt from every weak decay,
That withers vulgar frames away;
With not a drop of blood to stain
The current of thy purer vein;
So blest an age is pass'd by thee,
Thou seem'st a little deity!
ODE XXXV.1
CUPID once upon a bed
Of roses laid his weary head;
grasshoppers which sing, and that the females are silent; and on this circumstance is founded a bon-mot of Xenarchus, the comic poet, who says είτ' εισιν οι τεττιγες ουκ ευδαι μόνες, ων ταις γυναιξιν ουδ' οτι ουν φωνής εvi ; ' are not the grasshoppers happy in having dumb wives?" This note is originally Henry Stephen's; but I chose rather to make Madame Dacier my authority for it.
The Muses love thy shrilly tone, etc.] Phile, de Animal. Proprietat. calls this insect Mouras xs, the darling of the Muses; and Mourav oprav, the bird of the Muses; and we find Plato compared for his eloquence to the grasshopper, in the following punning lines of Timon, preserved by Diogenes Laertius:
Των πάντων δ' ηγείτο πλατύστατος, αλλ' αγορητής
Ηδυεπης τεττιξιν ισογράφος, οι θ' εκαδήμου
Δενδρέας εφεζομένοι οπα λειριόεσσαν ιείσι.
This last line is borrowed from Homer's Iliad, λ. where there occurs the very same simile.
Melodious insect! child of earth!] Longepierre has quoted the two first lines of an epigram of Antipater, from the first book of the Anthologia, where he prefers the grasshopper to the swan:
Αρχει τεττιγας μεθύσαι δρόσος, αλλά πιόντες
Αείδειν κύκνων εισι γεγωνότεροι.
In dew, that drops from morning's wings,
The gay Cicada sipping floats;
And, drunk with dew, his matin sings
Sweeter than any cygnet's notes.
1 Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyl, but is very inferior, I think, to his original, in delicacy of point, and naïveté of expression. Spenser in one of his smaller compositions, has sported more diffusely on the same subject. The poem to which I allude begins
Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbering
All in his mother's lap;
A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring,
About him flew by hap, etc.
In Almeloveen's collection of epigrams, there is one by
Luxorius, correspondent somewhat with the turn of Ana-
Luckless urchin not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering bee!
The bee awaked-with anger wild
The bee awaked and stung the child.
Loud and piteous are his cries;
To Venus quick he runs, he flies!
"Oh mother!--I am wounded through-
I die with pain-in sooth I do!
Stung by some little angry thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing-
A bee it was-for once, I know,
I heard a rustic call it so."
Thus he spoke, and she the while
Heard him with a soothing smile;
Then said, My infant, if so much
Thou feel the little wild bee's touch,
How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be,
The hapless heart that 's stung by thee!"
IF hoarded gold possess'd a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
creon, where Love complains to his mother of being wound-
ed by a rose.
The ode before us is the very flower of simplicity. The infantine complainings of the little god, and the natural and impressive reflections which they draw from Venus, are beauties of inimitable grace. I hope I shall be pardoned for introducing another Greek Anacreontic of Monsieur Menage, not for its similitude to the subject of this ode, but for some faint traces of this natural simplicity which it appears to me to have preserved:
Έρως ποτ' εν χορείαις
Των παρθένων αυτον
Την μοι φιλην Κορίνναν
Ως είδεν, ως προς αυτήν
Προσέδραμεν τράχηλο
Δίδυμας το χειράς απτών
Φίλει με, μητέρ, είπε.
Καλούμενη Κορίννα
Μήτηρ, ερυθριάζει,
Ως παρθένος μεν ούσα.
Κι αυτός δε δυσχεραίνων,
Ως όμμασι πλανήσεις,
Έρως ερυθριάζει.
Εγώ δε οι παραστας,
Μη δυσχεραινε, φημί.
Κύπριν τε και Κορίνναν
Διαγνώσαι ουκ έχουσι
Και οι βλεποντες οξυ.
As dancing o'er the enamell'd plain,
The flow'ret of the virgin train,
My soul's Corinna, lightly play'd,
Young Cupid saw the graceful maid,
He saw, and in a moment flew,
And round her neck his arms he threw;
And said, with smiles of infant joy,
"Oh! kiss me, mother, kiss thy boy!"
Unconscious of a mother's name,
The modest virgin blush'd with shame!
And angry Cupid, scarce believing
That vision could be so deceiving,
Thus to mistake his Cyprian dame,
The little infant blush'd with shame.
"Be not ashamed, my boy," I cried,
For I was lingering by his side;
"Corinna and thy lovely mother,
Believe me, are so like each other,
That clearest eyes are oft betray'd,
And take thy Venus for the maid."
Zitto, in his Cappriciosi Pensieri, has translated this ode of Anacreon.
1 Monsieur Fontenelle has translated this ode, in his dialogue between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, where he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet.
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