But ne'er could I a murderer be, The grape alone shall bleed by me; Yet can I shout, with wild delight, "I will — I will be mad to-night.

Alcides' self, in days of yore, Imbru'd his hands in youthful gore, And brandish'd, with a maniac joy, The quiver of th' expiring boy: And Ajax, with tremendous shield, Infuriate scour'd the guiltless field. But I, whose hands no weapon ask, No armour but this joyous flask; The trophy of whose frantic hours Is but a scatter'd wreath of flowers Ev'n I can sing with wild delight, "I will-I will be mad to-night!

ODE X.

How am I to punish thee,

For the wrong thou'st done to me,
Silly swallow, prating thing—
Shall I clip that wheeling wing?

This ode is addressed to a swallow. I find from Degen and from Gail's index, that the German poet Weisse has imitated it, Scherz. Lieder. lib. ii. carm. 5.; that Ramler also has imitated it, Lyr. Blumenlese, lib. iv. p. 335.; and some See Gail de Editionibus.

others.

We are here referred by Degen to that dull book, the Epistles of Alciphron, tenth epistle, third book; where Iophon complains to Eraston of being wakened by the crowing of a cock, from his vision of riches.

Silly swallow, prating thing, &c.] The loquacity of the swallow was proverbialised; thus Nicostratus :

Ει το συνεχως και πολλα και ταχέως λαλειν
Ην του φρονειν παρασημον, αἱ χελιδονες
Ελεγοντ' αν ἡμων σωφρονεστεραι πολυ.

If in prating from morning till night,
A sign of our wisdom there be,

The swallows are wiser by right,

For they prattle much faster than we.

Or, as Tereus did, of old,

(So the fabled tale is told,)

Shall I tear that tongue away,
Tongue that utter'd such a lay?
Ah, how thoughtless hast thou been !
Long before the dawn was seen,
When a dream came o'er my mind,
Picturing her I worship, kind,

Just when I was nearly blest,

Loud thy matins broke

my

rest!

Or, as Tereus did, of old, &c.] Modern poetry has confirmed the name of Philomel upon the nightingale; but many respectable authorities among the ancients assigned this metamorphose to Progne, and made Philomel the swallow, as Anacreon does here.

ODE XI.

“TELL me, gentle youth, I pray thee,
What in purchase shall I pay thee

For this little waxen toy,

Image of the Paphian boy?"

Thus I said, the other day,

To a youth who pass'd my way:

66

Sir," (he answer'd, and the while

Answer'd all in Doric style,)

"Take it, for a trifle take it;

'Twas not I who dared to make it;

No, believe me, 'twas not I;

Oh, it has cost me many a sigh,

And I can no longer keep

Little gods, who murder sleep!"

It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simplicity of this ode, and the humour of the turn with which it concludes. I feel, indeed, that the translation must appear vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader.

And I can no longer keep

Little gods, who murder sleep!] I have not literally rendered

"Here, then, here," (I said with joy,)
"Here is silver for the boy:

He shall be my bosom guest,
Idol of my pious breast!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine,
Warm me with that torch of thine;
Make me feel as I have felt,

Or thy waxen frame shall melt:

I must burn with warm desire,

Or thou, my boy-in yonder fire.

the epithet Tavторекта; if it has any meaning here, it is one, perhaps, better omitted.

I must burn with warm desire,

Or thou, my boy in yonder fire.]

From this Longe

pierre conjectures, that, whatever Anacreon might say, he felt sometimes the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature.