A hoof of strength she lent the steed,
And wing'd the timorous hare with speed.
She gave the lion fangs of terror,
And, o'er the ocean's crystal mirror,
Taught the unnumber'd scaly throng
To trace their liquid path along;
While for the umbrage of the grove,
She plum'd the warbling world of love.

To man she gave, in that proud hour,
The boon of intellectual power.

Then, what, oh woman, what, for thee,
Was left in Nature's treasury?

To man she gave, in that proud hour,

The boon of intellectual power.] In my first attempt to translate this ode, I had interpreted opovnμa, with 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

the books, the academies,

From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.

of war.

Than all the pomp and power
Nor steel, nor fire itself hath power
Like woman, in her conquering hour.
Be thou but fair, mankind adore thee,
Smile, and a world is weak before thee!

Than all the pomp and power of war.] Thus Achilles Tatius:καλλος οξύτερον τιτρώσκει βελους, και δια των οφθαλμων εις την ψυχην καταρρει. Οφθαλμος γαρ όδος ερωτικῳ τραυματι. “Beauty wounds more swiftly than the arrow, and passes through the eye to the very soul; for the eye is the inlet to the wounds of love."

Be thou but fair, mankind adore thee, Smile, and a world is weak before thee!] Longepierre's remark here is 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. Plautus, act 2. scene 2. Bacchid.

Sed Bacchis etiam fortis tibi visa.

'Fortis, id est formosa,' say Servius and Nonius.”

Thus

ODE XXV.

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 for ever smile.
And thus thy pinion rests and roves,-
Alas! unlike the swarm of Loves,
That brood within this hapless breast,
And never, never change their nest!

We have here another ode addressed to the swallow. Al. berti has imitated both in one poem, beginning

Perch' io pianga al tuo canto,
Rondinella importuna, &c.

Alas! unlike the swarm of loves,
That brood within this hapless breast,
And never, never change their nest!]

Thus Love is repre

Still every year, and all the

year,

They fix their fated dwelling here;

And some their infant plumage try,
And on a tender winglet fly;

While in the shell, impregn'd with fires,
Still lurk a thousand more desires;
Some from their tiny prisons peeping,

And some in formless embryo sleeping.

sented as a bird, in an epigram cited by Longepierre from the Anthologia:

Αιει μοι δυνει μεν εν ουασιν ηχος ερωτος,

Ομμα δε σιγα ποθοις το γλυκυ δακρυ φερει.
Ουδ' ἡ νυξ, ου φεγγος εκοιμισεν, αλλ' ὑπο φιλτρων
Ηδε που κραδιη γνωστος ενεστι τυπος.
Ω πτανοι, μη και ποτ' εφιπτασθαι μεν ερωτες
Οιδατ', αποπτηναι δ' ουθ' όσον ισχυετε,

'Tis Love that murmurs in my breast,
And makes me shed the secret tear;
Nor day nor night my soul hath rest,
For night and day his voice I hear.

A wound within my heart I find,

And oh! 'tis plain where Love has been;
For stili he leaves a wound behind,

Such as within my heart is seen.

Oh, bird of Love! with song so drear,
Make not my soul the nest of pain;

But, let the wing which brought thee here,
In pity waft thee hence again!

Thus peopled, like the vernal groves,
My breast resounds with warbling Loves;
One urchin imps the other's feather,
Then twin-desires they wing together,
And fast as they thus take their flight,
Still other urchins spring to light.
But is there then no kindly art,

To chase these Cupids from my
Ah, no! I fear, in sadness fear,
They will for ever nestle here!

heart;