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Resign'd a form, alas, too fair,
And grew a verdant laurel there;
Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill,
In terror seem'd to tremble still!

The god pursu'd, with wing'd desire;
And when his hopes were all on fire,
And when to clasp the nymph he thought,
A lifeless tree was all he caught;

And, stead of sighs that pleasure heaves,
Heard but the west-wind in the leaves!

But, pause, my soul, no more, no more—
Enthusiast, whither do I soar?

This sweetly-mad'ning dream of soul
Hath hurried me beyond the goal.
Why should I sing the mighty darts
Which fly to wound celestial hearts,
When ah, the song, with sweeter tone,
Can tell the darts that wound my own?

here, those who are curious in new readings, may place the

stop after puσews, thus:

Το μεν εκπεφευγε κεντρον

Φύσεως, δ' αμειψε μορφην.

Still be Anacreon, still inspire

The descant of the Teian lyre:

Still let the nectar'd numbers float,

Distilling love in every note!

And when some youth, whose glowing soul

Has felt the Paphian star's control,

When he the liquid lays shall hear,

His heart will flutter to his ear,

Still be Anacreon, still inspire

The descant of the Teian lyre:] The original is Tov Avaκρέοντα μιμου. I have translated it under the supposition that the hymn is by Anacreon; though, I fear, from this very line, that his claim to it can scarcely be supported.

Such is the

Τον Ανακρέοντα μιμου, "Imitate Anacreon." lesson given us by the lyrist; and if, in poetry, a simple elegance of sentiment, enriched by the most playful felicities of fancy, be a charm which invites or deserves imitation, where shall we find such a guide as Anacreon? In morality, too, with some little reserve, we need not blush, I think, to follow in his footsteps. For if his song be the language of his heart, though luxurious and relaxed, he was artless and benevolent; and who would not forgive a few irregularities, when atoned for by virtues so rare and so endearing? When we think of the sentiment in those lines:

Away! I hate the slanderous dart,

Which steals to wound th' unwary heart,

how many are there in the world, to whom we would wish to say, Τον Ανακρέοντα μιμου !

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And drinking there of song divine,
Banquet on intellectual wine!

Here ends the last of the odes in the Vatican MS., whose authority helps to confirm the genuine antiquity of them all, though a few have stolen among the number, which we may hesitate in attributing to Anacreon. In the little essay prefixed to this translation, I observed that Barnes has quoted this manuscript incorrectly, relying upon an imperfect copy of it, which Isaac Vossius had taken. I shall just mention two or three instances of this inaccuracy the first which occur to me. In the ode of the Dove, on the words ПTeроlσ σvукаλvw, he says, "Vatican MS. σvokia(wv, etiam Prisciano invito: " but the MS. reads σvvкaλvw, with σvokiaσw interlined. Degen too, on the same line, is somewhat in error. In the twenty-second ode of this series, line thirteenth, the MS. has Tevin with a interlined, and Barnes imputes to it the reading of Tevon. In the fifty-seventh, line twelfth, he professes to have preserved the reading of the MS. Αλαλημενη δ' επ' αυτη, while the latter has αλαλημενος δ' επ' αυτα. Almost all the other annotators have transplanted these errors from Barnes.

ODE LXI.

YOUTH'S endearing charms are fled;
Hoary locks deform my head;
Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,

All the flowers of life decay.

The intrusion of this melancholy ode, among the careless levities of our poet, reminds us of the skeletons which the Egyptians used to hang up in their banquet-rooms, to inculcate a thought of mortality even amidst the dissipations of mirth. If it were not for the beauty of its numbers, the Teian Muse should disown this ode. "Quid habet illius, illius quæ spirabat amores?"

To Stobæus we are indebted for it.

Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,

All the flowers of life decay.]

Horace often, with feeling and

elegance, deplores the fugacity of human enjoyments. See book ii. ode 11.; and thus in the second epistle, book ii. : —

Singula de nobis anni prædantur euntes ;
Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum.
The wing of every passing day
Withers some blooming joy away;
And wafts from our enamour'd arms
The banquet's mirth, the virgin's charms.

Withering age begins to trace
Sad memorials o'er my face;
Time has shed its sweetest bloom,
All the future must be gloom.
This it is that sets me sighing;
Dreary is the thought of dying!
Lone and dismal is the road,
Down to Pluto's dark abode;

And, when once the journey's o'er,
Ah! we can return no more!

Dreary is the thought of dying! &c.] Regnier, a libertine French poet, has written some sonnets on the approach of death, full of gloomy and trembling repentance. Chaulieu, however, supports more consistently the spirit of the Epicurean philosopher. See his poem, addressed to the Marquis de Lafare

Plus j'approche du terme et moins je le redoute, &c.

And, when once the journey's o'er,

Ah! we can return no more!] Scaliger, upon Catullus's well-known lines, "Qui nunc it per iter, &c." remarks, that Acheron, with the same idea, is called avecodos by Theocritus, and δυσεκδρομος by Nicander.

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