Chapter 27

Archianássa's my own one,The sweet courtesan, Colophónian;E'en from her wrinkles I feelLove's irresistible steel!O ye wretches, whose hungerWas raised for her when she was younger!Through what flames, alas,Must she have forced you to pass! —Walsh.

Archianássa's my own one,

The sweet courtesan, Colophónian;

E'en from her wrinkles I feel

Love's irresistible steel!

O ye wretches, whose hunger

Was raised for her when she was younger!

Through what flames, alas,

Must she have forced you to pass! —Walsh.

Hermesianax.(Book xiii. § 71, p. 953.)

Such was the nymph, whom Orpheus ledFrom the dark regions of the dead,Where Charon with his lazy boatFerries o'er Lethe's sedgy moat;Th' undaunted minstrel smites the strings,His strain through hell's vast concave rings:Cocytus hears the plaintive theme,And refluent turns his pitying stream;Three-headed Cerberus, by fatePosted at Pluto's iron gate,Low-crouching rolls his haggard eyesEcstatic, and foregoes his prize;With ears erect at hell's wide doorsLies listening, as the songster soars:Thus music charm'd the realms beneath,And beauty triumph'd over death.The bard, whom night's pale regent bore,In secret, on the Athenian shore,Musæus, felt the sacred flame,And burnt for the fair Theban dameAntiope, whom mighty LoveMade pregnant by imperial Jove;The poet plied his amorous strain,Press'd the fond fair, nor press'd in vain,For Ceres, who the veil undrew,That screen'd her mysteries from his view,Propitious this kind truth reveal'd,That woman close besieged will yield.Old Hesiod too his native shadeMade vocal to th' Ascrean maid;The bard his heav'n-directed loreForsook, and hymn'd the gods no more:Soft love-sick ditties now he sung,Love touch'd his harp, love tuned his tongue,Silent his Heliconian lyre,And love's put out religion's fire.Homer, of all past bards the prime,And wonder of all future time,Whom Jove with wit sublimely blest,And touch'd with purest fire his breast,From gods and heroes turn'd awayTo warble the domestic lay,And wand'ring to the desert isle,On whose parch'd sands no seasons smile,In distant Ithaca was seenChanting the suit-repelling Queen.Mimnermus tuned his amorous lay,When time had turn'd his temples grey;Love revell'd in his aged veins,Soft was his lyre, and sweet his strains;Frequenter of the wanton feast,Nanno his theme, and youth his guest.Antimachus with tender artPour'd forth the sorrows of his heart;In her Dardanian grave he laidChryseis his beloved maid;And thence returning, sad besidePactolus' melancholy tide,To Colophon the minstrel came,Still sighing forth the mournful name,Till lenient time his grief appeased,And tears by long indulgence ceased.Alcæus strung his sounding lyre,And smote it with a hand of fire,To Sappho, fondest of the fair,Chanting the loud and lofty air.Whilst old Anacreon, wet with wine,And crown'd with wreaths of Lesbian vine,* * * * * *E'en Sophocles, whose honey'd loreRivals the bee's delicious store,Chorus'd the praise of wine and love,Choicest of all the gifts of Jove.Euripides, whose tragic breastNo yielding fair one ever press'd,At length in his obdurate heartFelt love's revengeful rankling dart,* * * * * *'Till vengeance met him in the way,And bloodhounds made the bard their prey.Philoxenus, by wood-nymphs bredOn famed Cythæron's sacred head,And train'd to music, wine, and song,'Midst orgies of the frantic throng,When beauteous Galatea died,His flute and thyrsus cast aside;And wand'ring to thy pensive coast,Sad Melos! where his love was lost,Each night through the responsive airThy echoes witness'd his despair:Still, still his plaintive harp was heard,Soft as the nightly-singing bird.Philetas too in Battis' praiseSung his long-winded roundelays;His statue in the Coan groveNow breathes in brass perpetual love.The mortified abstemious sage,Deep read in learning's crabbed page,Pythagoras, whose boundless soulScaled the wide globe from pole to pole,Earth, planets, seas, and heav'n above,Yet found no spot secure from love;With love declines unequal war,And trembling drags his conqueror's car;Theano clasp'd him in her arms,And wisdom stoop'd to beauty's charms.E'en Socrates, whose moral mindWith truth enlighten'd all mankind,When at Aspasia's side he sate,Still found no end to love's debate;For strong indeed must be that heart,Where love finds no unguarded part.Sage Aristippus by right ruleOf logic purged the Sophist's school,Check'd folly in its headlong course,And swept it down by reason's force;'Till Venus aim'd the heart-felt blow,And laid the mighty victor low. —Cumberland.

Such was the nymph, whom Orpheus led

From the dark regions of the dead,

Where Charon with his lazy boat

Ferries o'er Lethe's sedgy moat;

Th' undaunted minstrel smites the strings,

His strain through hell's vast concave rings:

Cocytus hears the plaintive theme,

And refluent turns his pitying stream;

Three-headed Cerberus, by fate

Posted at Pluto's iron gate,

Low-crouching rolls his haggard eyes

Ecstatic, and foregoes his prize;

With ears erect at hell's wide doors

Lies listening, as the songster soars:

Thus music charm'd the realms beneath,

And beauty triumph'd over death.

The bard, whom night's pale regent bore,

In secret, on the Athenian shore,

Musæus, felt the sacred flame,

And burnt for the fair Theban dame

Antiope, whom mighty Love

Made pregnant by imperial Jove;

The poet plied his amorous strain,

Press'd the fond fair, nor press'd in vain,

For Ceres, who the veil undrew,

That screen'd her mysteries from his view,

Propitious this kind truth reveal'd,

That woman close besieged will yield.

Old Hesiod too his native shade

Made vocal to th' Ascrean maid;

The bard his heav'n-directed lore

Forsook, and hymn'd the gods no more:

Soft love-sick ditties now he sung,

Love touch'd his harp, love tuned his tongue,

Silent his Heliconian lyre,

And love's put out religion's fire.

Homer, of all past bards the prime,

And wonder of all future time,

Whom Jove with wit sublimely blest,

And touch'd with purest fire his breast,

From gods and heroes turn'd away

To warble the domestic lay,

And wand'ring to the desert isle,

On whose parch'd sands no seasons smile,

In distant Ithaca was seen

Chanting the suit-repelling Queen.

Mimnermus tuned his amorous lay,

When time had turn'd his temples grey;

Love revell'd in his aged veins,

Soft was his lyre, and sweet his strains;

Frequenter of the wanton feast,

Nanno his theme, and youth his guest.

Antimachus with tender art

Pour'd forth the sorrows of his heart;

In her Dardanian grave he laid

Chryseis his beloved maid;

And thence returning, sad beside

Pactolus' melancholy tide,

To Colophon the minstrel came,

Still sighing forth the mournful name,

Till lenient time his grief appeased,

And tears by long indulgence ceased.

Alcæus strung his sounding lyre,

And smote it with a hand of fire,

To Sappho, fondest of the fair,

Chanting the loud and lofty air.

Whilst old Anacreon, wet with wine,

And crown'd with wreaths of Lesbian vine,

* * * * * *

E'en Sophocles, whose honey'd lore

Rivals the bee's delicious store,

Chorus'd the praise of wine and love,

Choicest of all the gifts of Jove.

Euripides, whose tragic breast

No yielding fair one ever press'd,

At length in his obdurate heart

Felt love's revengeful rankling dart,

* * * * * *

'Till vengeance met him in the way,

And bloodhounds made the bard their prey.

Philoxenus, by wood-nymphs bred

On famed Cythæron's sacred head,

And train'd to music, wine, and song,

'Midst orgies of the frantic throng,

When beauteous Galatea died,

His flute and thyrsus cast aside;

And wand'ring to thy pensive coast,

Sad Melos! where his love was lost,

Each night through the responsive air

Thy echoes witness'd his despair:

Still, still his plaintive harp was heard,

Soft as the nightly-singing bird.

Philetas too in Battis' praise

Sung his long-winded roundelays;

His statue in the Coan grove

Now breathes in brass perpetual love.

The mortified abstemious sage,

Deep read in learning's crabbed page,

Pythagoras, whose boundless soul

Scaled the wide globe from pole to pole,

Earth, planets, seas, and heav'n above,

Yet found no spot secure from love;

With love declines unequal war,

And trembling drags his conqueror's car;

Theano clasp'd him in her arms,

And wisdom stoop'd to beauty's charms.

E'en Socrates, whose moral mind

With truth enlighten'd all mankind,

When at Aspasia's side he sate,

Still found no end to love's debate;

For strong indeed must be that heart,

Where love finds no unguarded part.

Sage Aristippus by right rule

Of logic purged the Sophist's school,

Check'd folly in its headlong course,

And swept it down by reason's force;

'Till Venus aim'd the heart-felt blow,

And laid the mighty victor low. —Cumberland.

The same.

Orpheus,—Œagrus' son,—thou know'st full well,—The Thracian harper,—how with magic skill,Inspired by love, he struck the chorded shell,And made the shades obedient to his will,As from the nether gloom to light he ledHis love Agriope. He to Pluto's land,Baleful and cheerless, region of the dead,Sail'd far away,—and sought th' infernal strand,Where Charon, gaunt and grim, his hollow bark(Fraught with departed souls, an airy crowd)Steers o'er the Stygian billow dun and dark,And with a voice of thunder bellows loudO'er the slow pool, that scarcely creeps alongThrough sedge, and weedy ooze: but nathless he,On the lone margent, pour'd his love-sick song,And charm'd Hell's monsters with his minstrelsy.Cocytus scowl'd,—but grinn'd a ghastly smile,Albeit unused to the relenting mood:Cerb'rus, three-mouth'd, stopp'd short,—and paused the while,Low-crouching, list'ning, (for the sounds were good)Silent his throat of flame, his eyes of fireQuench'd in ecstatic slumber, as he lay.Thus Hell's stern rulers hearken'd to his lyre,And gave the fair one back to upper day.

Orpheus,—Œagrus' son,—thou know'st full well,—

The Thracian harper,—how with magic skill,

Inspired by love, he struck the chorded shell,

And made the shades obedient to his will,

As from the nether gloom to light he led

His love Agriope. He to Pluto's land,

Baleful and cheerless, region of the dead,

Sail'd far away,—and sought th' infernal strand,

Where Charon, gaunt and grim, his hollow bark

(Fraught with departed souls, an airy crowd)

Steers o'er the Stygian billow dun and dark,

And with a voice of thunder bellows loud

O'er the slow pool, that scarcely creeps along

Through sedge, and weedy ooze: but nathless he,

On the lone margent, pour'd his love-sick song,

And charm'd Hell's monsters with his minstrelsy.

Cocytus scowl'd,—but grinn'd a ghastly smile,

Albeit unused to the relenting mood:

Cerb'rus, three-mouth'd, stopp'd short,—and paused the while,

Low-crouching, list'ning, (for the sounds were good)

Silent his throat of flame, his eyes of fire

Quench'd in ecstatic slumber, as he lay.

Thus Hell's stern rulers hearken'd to his lyre,

And gave the fair one back to upper day.

II.

Nor did Musæus, Luna's heav'nly child,And high-priest of the Graces, leave unsungThe fair Antiope, in accents wild,As fell th' impassion'd language from his tongue:Who woo'd of many suitors, at the shrineOf mystic Ceres, by Eleusis' brow,Chanted the high response in strains divine,—And oped the secret springs,—and taught to knowThe heav'n-drawn truths, in holy rapture lost.But nought avail'd her zeal;—in evil hour,Theme of the lyre below, her hopes were cross'd:Death cropp'd the stalk, that bore so fair a flow'r.

Nor did Musæus, Luna's heav'nly child,

And high-priest of the Graces, leave unsung

The fair Antiope, in accents wild,

As fell th' impassion'd language from his tongue:

Who woo'd of many suitors, at the shrine

Of mystic Ceres, by Eleusis' brow,

Chanted the high response in strains divine,—

And oped the secret springs,—and taught to know

The heav'n-drawn truths, in holy rapture lost.

But nought avail'd her zeal;—in evil hour,

Theme of the lyre below, her hopes were cross'd:

Death cropp'd the stalk, that bore so fair a flow'r.

III.

I tell thee too, that the Bœotian bard,Sage Hesiod, quitted the Cumæan shore,A wand'rer not unwilling,—afterwardIn Heliconian Ascra seen to soar,Deathless upon the mighty wings of fame.'Twas there he woo'd Eœa, peerless maid,—And strove to achieve her love,—and with her namePrefaced his verse, with hallow'd lore inlaid.

I tell thee too, that the Bœotian bard,

Sage Hesiod, quitted the Cumæan shore,

A wand'rer not unwilling,—afterward

In Heliconian Ascra seen to soar,

Deathless upon the mighty wings of fame.

'Twas there he woo'd Eœa, peerless maid,—

And strove to achieve her love,—and with her name

Prefaced his verse, with hallow'd lore inlaid.

IV.

Enravish'd Homer, ward of Fate from Jove,Prince of melodious numbers, toil'd his wayTo barren Ithaca,—and tuned, for loveOf chaste Penelope, the am'rous lay;Forgot his native land, and bade adieuTo wide Ionia, for the island drear,And wail'd Icarius' house, and Sparta too,And dropp'd himself the sympathetic tear.

Enravish'd Homer, ward of Fate from Jove,

Prince of melodious numbers, toil'd his way

To barren Ithaca,—and tuned, for love

Of chaste Penelope, the am'rous lay;

Forgot his native land, and bade adieu

To wide Ionia, for the island drear,

And wail'd Icarius' house, and Sparta too,

And dropp'd himself the sympathetic tear.

Mimnermus, school'd in hardship, who first taughtTo breathe soft airs of elegiac song,Fair Nanno ask'd, and had; and often sought,As by her side he blithely trudged along,The merry wake,—a ready piper arm'dWith mouth-piece aptly fitted: and with worseThan deadly hate and indignation warm'd,Hermobius and Pherecles lash'd in verse.

Mimnermus, school'd in hardship, who first taught

To breathe soft airs of elegiac song,

Fair Nanno ask'd, and had; and often sought,

As by her side he blithely trudged along,

The merry wake,—a ready piper arm'd

With mouth-piece aptly fitted: and with worse

Than deadly hate and indignation warm'd,

Hermobius and Pherecles lash'd in verse.

VI.

Antimachus, for beauteous Lyda's love,Hied him to rich Pactolus' golden tide:But, well-a-day! his bliss stern Fate unwove;Short was her doom,—in Pergamus she died,—And in her grave was laid in prime of age.He, full of lamentation, journey'd onTo Colophon,—and on the sacred pageEnter'd his tale, and ceased, his mission done.

Antimachus, for beauteous Lyda's love,

Hied him to rich Pactolus' golden tide:

But, well-a-day! his bliss stern Fate unwove;

Short was her doom,—in Pergamus she died,—

And in her grave was laid in prime of age.

He, full of lamentation, journey'd on

To Colophon,—and on the sacred page

Enter'd his tale, and ceased, his mission done.

VII.

And well thou know'st, how famed Alcæus smoteOf his high harp the love-enliven'd strings,And raised to Sappho's praise th' enamour'd note,Midst noise of mirth and jocund revellings:Ay, he did love that nightingale of songWith all a lover's fervour,—and, as heDeftly attuned the lyre, to madness stungThe Teian bard with envious jealousy.For her Anacreon, charming lyrist, woo'd,And fain would win, with sweet mellifluous chime,Encircled by her Lesbian sisterhood;—Would often Samos leave, and many a time,From vanquish'd Teos' viny orchards, hieTo viny Lesbos' isle,—and from the shore,O'er the blue wave, on Lectum cast his eye,And think on by-gone days, and times no more.

And well thou know'st, how famed Alcæus smote

Of his high harp the love-enliven'd strings,

And raised to Sappho's praise th' enamour'd note,

Midst noise of mirth and jocund revellings:

Ay, he did love that nightingale of song

With all a lover's fervour,—and, as he

Deftly attuned the lyre, to madness stung

The Teian bard with envious jealousy.

For her Anacreon, charming lyrist, woo'd,

And fain would win, with sweet mellifluous chime,

Encircled by her Lesbian sisterhood;—

Would often Samos leave, and many a time,

From vanquish'd Teos' viny orchards, hie

To viny Lesbos' isle,—and from the shore,

O'er the blue wave, on Lectum cast his eye,

And think on by-gone days, and times no more.

VIII.

And how, from, steep Colonus' rocky height,On lightsome pinions borne, the Attic beeSail'd through the air, and wing'd her honied flight,And sang of love and wine melodiouslyIn choric numbers: for ethereal JoveBestow'd on Sophocles Archippe's charms,Albeit in eve of life,—and gave to loveAnd fold the yielding fair one in his arms.

And how, from, steep Colonus' rocky height,

On lightsome pinions borne, the Attic bee

Sail'd through the air, and wing'd her honied flight,

And sang of love and wine melodiously

In choric numbers: for ethereal Jove

Bestow'd on Sophocles Archippe's charms,

Albeit in eve of life,—and gave to love

And fold the yielding fair one in his arms.

IX.

Nay, I aver, in very sooth, that he,Dead from his birth to love, to beauty blind,Who, by quaint rules of cold philosophy,Contemn'd the sex, and hated womankind,—That he,—e'en he,—with all his stoic craft,Cave to imperial Love unwilling way,And, sore empierced with Cupid's tyrant shaft,Could neither sleep by night, nor rest by day;What time, in Archelaus' regal hall,Ægino, graceful handmaid, viands broughtOf choicest savour, to her master's callObsequious, or wine's impurpled draught:Nor didst thou cease, through streets and highways broad,Euripides! to chase the royal slave,Till vengeance met thee, in his angry mood,And deep-mouth'd bloodhounds tore thee to the grave.

Nay, I aver, in very sooth, that he,

Dead from his birth to love, to beauty blind,

Who, by quaint rules of cold philosophy,

Contemn'd the sex, and hated womankind,—

That he,—e'en he,—with all his stoic craft,

Cave to imperial Love unwilling way,

And, sore empierced with Cupid's tyrant shaft,

Could neither sleep by night, nor rest by day;

What time, in Archelaus' regal hall,

Ægino, graceful handmaid, viands brought

Of choicest savour, to her master's call

Obsequious, or wine's impurpled draught:

Nor didst thou cease, through streets and highways broad,

Euripides! to chase the royal slave,

Till vengeance met thee, in his angry mood,

And deep-mouth'd bloodhounds tore thee to the grave.

And him too of Cythera,—foster childOf all the Muses, train'd to love and song,—Philoxenus,—thou knowest,—how with wildAnd loud acclaim, (as late he pass'd alongThrough Colophon,) and shouts of joyfulness,The air was riv'n: for thou didst hear the taleOf Galatea lost, fair shepherdess,Whom e'en the firstlings of her flock bewail.

And him too of Cythera,—foster child

Of all the Muses, train'd to love and song,—

Philoxenus,—thou knowest,—how with wild

And loud acclaim, (as late he pass'd along

Through Colophon,) and shouts of joyfulness,

The air was riv'n: for thou didst hear the tale

Of Galatea lost, fair shepherdess,

Whom e'en the firstlings of her flock bewail.

XI.

Nor is Philetas' name to thee unknown,Than whom a sweeter minstrel never was;Whose statue lives in his own native town,Hallow'd to fame, and breathes in deathless brass,Under a platane,—seeming still to praiseThe nimble Bittis, in the Coan grove,With am'rous ditties, and harmonious lays,And all the art, and all the warmth of love.

Nor is Philetas' name to thee unknown,

Than whom a sweeter minstrel never was;

Whose statue lives in his own native town,

Hallow'd to fame, and breathes in deathless brass,

Under a platane,—seeming still to praise

The nimble Bittis, in the Coan grove,

With am'rous ditties, and harmonious lays,

And all the art, and all the warmth of love.

XII.

And they of humankind, (to crown my song,)Who, in th' austereness of their life, pursuedKnowledge abstruse, her mazy paths among,—And sought for hidden lore,—and ceaseless woo'dThe Muse severe, couching her doctrines sageIn cogent language, marring ev'ry clogTo intellectual sense, on reason's page;—Or, in the philosophic dialogue,Moulded th' important truths, they meant to prove,In milder form, and pleased and reason'd too;—And these confess'd the mighty power of Love,And bow'd the neck, nor could his yoke eschew.

And they of humankind, (to crown my song,)

Who, in th' austereness of their life, pursued

Knowledge abstruse, her mazy paths among,—

And sought for hidden lore,—and ceaseless woo'd

The Muse severe, couching her doctrines sage

In cogent language, marring ev'ry clog

To intellectual sense, on reason's page;—

Or, in the philosophic dialogue,

Moulded th' important truths, they meant to prove,

In milder form, and pleased and reason'd too;—

And these confess'd the mighty power of Love,

And bow'd the neck, nor could his yoke eschew.

XIII.

Pythagoras, the Samian sage, who taughtTo solve the knots, perplex and intricate,Of fair geometry, and whilom broughtInto a narrow sphere's brief compass straitThe stars of heav'n, in order absolute;With frantic passion woo'd Theano's charms,Infuriate,—nor ceased his am'rous suit,Till he had clasp'd the damsel in his arms.

Pythagoras, the Samian sage, who taught

To solve the knots, perplex and intricate,

Of fair geometry, and whilom brought

Into a narrow sphere's brief compass strait

The stars of heav'n, in order absolute;

With frantic passion woo'd Theano's charms,

Infuriate,—nor ceased his am'rous suit,

Till he had clasp'd the damsel in his arms.

XIV.

And what a flame of love the Paphian queenLit, in her wrath, in the enamour'd breastOf Socrates,—whom of the sons of menApollo named the wisest and the best!He in Aspasia's house each lighter careChased from his breast, when at her side he sateIn am'rous parley,—and, still ling'ring there,Could find no end to love, or love's debate.

And what a flame of love the Paphian queen

Lit, in her wrath, in the enamour'd breast

Of Socrates,—whom of the sons of men

Apollo named the wisest and the best!

He in Aspasia's house each lighter care

Chased from his breast, when at her side he sate

In am'rous parley,—and, still ling'ring there,

Could find no end to love, or love's debate.

XV.

Shrewd Aristippus, Cyrenean sage,To the Corinthian Isthmus' double shoreWended his way, his passion to assuage,—And shunn'd the calm retreats he loved before;Forsook the far-famed Athens,—inly movedBy Laïs' charms, by Laïs lured astray,—And in voluptuous Eph'ra lived,—and loved,—From Academic bowers far away. —J. Bailey.

Shrewd Aristippus, Cyrenean sage,

To the Corinthian Isthmus' double shore

Wended his way, his passion to assuage,—

And shunn'd the calm retreats he loved before;

Forsook the far-famed Athens,—inly moved

By Laïs' charms, by Laïs lured astray,—

And in voluptuous Eph'ra lived,—and loved,—

From Academic bowers far away. —J. Bailey.

Part of the same.(P. 954.)

With her the sweet Anacreon stray'd,Begirt with many a Lesbian maid;And fled for her the Samian strand,For her his vine-clad native land—A bleeding country left the whileFor wine and love in Sappho's isle. —Anon.

With her the sweet Anacreon stray'd,

Begirt with many a Lesbian maid;

And fled for her the Samian strand,

For her his vine-clad native land—

A bleeding country left the while

For wine and love in Sappho's isle. —Anon.

Anacreon.(Book xiii. § 72, p. 955.)

Anacreon.—Spirit of love, whose tresses shineAlong the breeze in golden twine;Come, within a fragrant cloud,Blushing with light, thy votary shroud;And, on those wings that sparkling play,Waft, oh! waft me hence away!Love! my soul is full of thee,Alive to all thy luxury.But she, the nymph for whom I glow,The pretty Lesbian, mocks my woe;Smiles at the hoar and silver'd huesWhich time upon my forehead strews.Alas! I fear she keeps her charmsIn store for younger, happier arms!Sappho.—Oh Muse! who sitt'st on golden throne,Full many a hymn of dulcet toneThe Teian sage is taught by thee;But, goddess, from thy throne of gold,The sweetest hymn thou'st ever told,He lately learn'd and sang for me. —Thos. Moore.

Anacreon.—Spirit of love, whose tresses shine

Along the breeze in golden twine;

Come, within a fragrant cloud,

Blushing with light, thy votary shroud;

And, on those wings that sparkling play,

Waft, oh! waft me hence away!

Love! my soul is full of thee,

Alive to all thy luxury.

But she, the nymph for whom I glow,

The pretty Lesbian, mocks my woe;

Smiles at the hoar and silver'd hues

Which time upon my forehead strews.

Alas! I fear she keeps her charms

In store for younger, happier arms!

Sappho.—Oh Muse! who sitt'st on golden throne,

Full many a hymn of dulcet tone

The Teian sage is taught by thee;

But, goddess, from thy throne of gold,

The sweetest hymn thou'st ever told,

He lately learn'd and sang for me. —Thos. Moore.

The same.

Pelting with a purple ball,Bright-hair'd Cupid gives the call,And tries his antics one and all,My steps to her to wile;But she—for thousands round her vie—Casts on my tell-tale locks her eye,And bids the grey-hair'd poet sigh—Another wins her smile! —Anon.

Pelting with a purple ball,

Bright-hair'd Cupid gives the call,

And tries his antics one and all,

My steps to her to wile;

But she—for thousands round her vie—

Casts on my tell-tale locks her eye,

And bids the grey-hair'd poet sigh—

Another wins her smile! —Anon.

Alcman.(Book xiii. § 75, p. 958.)

Again sweet Love, by Cytherea led,Hath all my soul possest;Again delicious rapture shedIn torrents o'er my breast.Now Megalostrata the fair,Of all the Virgin trainMost blessed—with her yellow floating hair—Hath brought me to the Muses' holy fane,To flourish there. —Bland.

Again sweet Love, by Cytherea led,

Hath all my soul possest;

Again delicious rapture shed

In torrents o'er my breast.

Now Megalostrata the fair,

Of all the Virgin train

Most blessed—with her yellow floating hair—

Hath brought me to the Muses' holy fane,

To flourish there. —Bland.

Ibycus.(Book xiii. § 76, p. 958.)

What time soft Zephyrs fan the treesIn the blest gardens of th' Hesperides,Where those bright golden apples glow,Fed by the fruitful streams that round them flow,And new-born clusters teem with wineBeneath the shadowy foliage of the vine;To me the joyous season bringsBut added torture on his sunny wings.Then Love, the tyrant of my breast,Impetuous ravisher of joy and rest,Bursts, furious, from his mother's arms,And fills my trembling soul with new alarms;Like Boreas from his Thracian plains,Clothed in fierce lightnings, in my bosom reigns,And rages still, the madd'ning power—His parching flames my wither'd heart devour;Wild Phrensy comes my senses o'er,Sweet Peace is fled, and Reason rules no more. —Bland.

What time soft Zephyrs fan the trees

In the blest gardens of th' Hesperides,

Where those bright golden apples glow,

Fed by the fruitful streams that round them flow,

And new-born clusters teem with wine

Beneath the shadowy foliage of the vine;

To me the joyous season brings

But added torture on his sunny wings.

Then Love, the tyrant of my breast,

Impetuous ravisher of joy and rest,

Bursts, furious, from his mother's arms,

And fills my trembling soul with new alarms;

Like Boreas from his Thracian plains,

Clothed in fierce lightnings, in my bosom reigns,

And rages still, the madd'ning power—

His parching flames my wither'd heart devour;

Wild Phrensy comes my senses o'er,

Sweet Peace is fled, and Reason rules no more. —Bland.

Chæremon.(Book xiii. § 87, p. 970.)

One to the silver lustre of the moon,In graceful, careless, attitude reclined,Display'd her snowy bosom, full unzonedIn all its naked loveliness: anotherLed up the sprightly dance; and as she moved,Her loose robes gently floating, the light breezeLifted her vest, and to the enraptured eyeUncover'd her left breast. Gods! what a sight!What heavenly whiteness! breathing and alive,A swelling picture!—This from eyelids darkBeam'd forth a ray of such celestial light,As dazzled whilst it charm'd. A fourth appear'd,Her beauties half uncover'd, and display'dHer delicate arm, and taper fingers, small,And round, and white as polish'd ivory.Another yet, with garment loosely thrownAcross her neck and shoulders; as she moved,The am'rous zephyrs drew aside her robe,Exposed her pliant limbs, full, round, and fair,Such as the Paphian Goddess might have own'd.Love smiled at my surprise, shook his light wings,And mark'd me for his victim.—Others threwTheir careless limbs upon the bank bedeck'dWith odoriferous herbs, and blossoms rare,Such as the earth produced from Helen's tears,The violet with dark leaves, the crocus too,That gave a warm tint to their flowing robes,And marjoram sweet of Persia rear'd its headTo deck the verdant spot.—Anon.

One to the silver lustre of the moon,

In graceful, careless, attitude reclined,

Display'd her snowy bosom, full unzoned

In all its naked loveliness: another

Led up the sprightly dance; and as she moved,

Her loose robes gently floating, the light breeze

Lifted her vest, and to the enraptured eye

Uncover'd her left breast. Gods! what a sight!

What heavenly whiteness! breathing and alive,

A swelling picture!—This from eyelids dark

Beam'd forth a ray of such celestial light,

As dazzled whilst it charm'd. A fourth appear'd,

Her beauties half uncover'd, and display'd

Her delicate arm, and taper fingers, small,

And round, and white as polish'd ivory.

Another yet, with garment loosely thrown

Across her neck and shoulders; as she moved,

The am'rous zephyrs drew aside her robe,

Exposed her pliant limbs, full, round, and fair,

Such as the Paphian Goddess might have own'd.

Love smiled at my surprise, shook his light wings,

And mark'd me for his victim.—Others threw

Their careless limbs upon the bank bedeck'd

With odoriferous herbs, and blossoms rare,

Such as the earth produced from Helen's tears,

The violet with dark leaves, the crocus too,

That gave a warm tint to their flowing robes,

And marjoram sweet of Persia rear'd its head

To deck the verdant spot.—Anon.

The same.

There one reclined apart I saw, within the moon's pale light,With bosom through her parted robe appearing snowy white:Another danced, and floating free her garments in the breeze,She seem'd as buoyant as the wave that leaps o'er summer seas;While dusky shadows all around shrunk backward from the place,Chased by the beaming splendour shed like sunshine from her face.Beside this living picture stood a maiden passing fair,With soft round arms exposed: a fourth, with free and graceful air,Like Dian when the bounding hart she tracks through morning dew,Bared through the opening of her robes her lovely limbs to view.And oh! the image of her charms, as clouds in heaven above,Mirror'd by streams, left on my soul the stamp of hopeless love.And slumbering near them others lay, on beds of sweetest flowers,The dusky-petal'd violet, the rose of Paphian bowers,The inula and saffron flower, which on their garments castAnd veils, such hues as deck the sky when day is ebbing fast;While far and near tall marjoram bedeck'd the fairy ground,Loading with sweets the vagrant winds that frolick'd all around. —J. A. St. John.

There one reclined apart I saw, within the moon's pale light,

With bosom through her parted robe appearing snowy white:

Another danced, and floating free her garments in the breeze,

She seem'd as buoyant as the wave that leaps o'er summer seas;

While dusky shadows all around shrunk backward from the place,

Chased by the beaming splendour shed like sunshine from her face.

Beside this living picture stood a maiden passing fair,

With soft round arms exposed: a fourth, with free and graceful air,

Like Dian when the bounding hart she tracks through morning dew,

Bared through the opening of her robes her lovely limbs to view.

And oh! the image of her charms, as clouds in heaven above,

Mirror'd by streams, left on my soul the stamp of hopeless love.

And slumbering near them others lay, on beds of sweetest flowers,

The dusky-petal'd violet, the rose of Paphian bowers,

The inula and saffron flower, which on their garments cast

And veils, such hues as deck the sky when day is ebbing fast;

While far and near tall marjoram bedeck'd the fairy ground,

Loading with sweets the vagrant winds that frolick'd all around. —J. A. St. John.

Semos.(Book xiv. § 2, p. 979.)

Poor mortal unmerry, who seekest to knowWhat will bid thy brow soften, thy quips and cranks flow,To the house of the mother I bid thee repair—Thou wilt find, if she's pleased, what thy heart covets there. —J. A. St. John.

Poor mortal unmerry, who seekest to know

What will bid thy brow soften, thy quips and cranks flow,

To the house of the mother I bid thee repair—

Thou wilt find, if she's pleased, what thy heart covets there. —J. A. St. John.

Melanippides.(Book xiv. § 7, p. 984.)

But Athené flung awayFrom her pure hand those noxious instrumentsIt late had touch'd, and thus did say—"Hence, ye banes of beauty, hence;What? shall I my charms disgraceBy making such an odious face?" —Bland.

But Athené flung away

From her pure hand those noxious instruments

It late had touch'd, and thus did say—

"Hence, ye banes of beauty, hence;

What? shall I my charms disgrace

By making such an odious face?" —Bland.

Pratinas.(Book xiv. § 8, p. 985.)

What means this tumult? Why this rage?What thunder shakes th' Athenian stage?'Tis frantic Bromius bids me sing,He tunes the pipe, he smites the string;The Dryads with their chief accord,Submit, and hail the drama's lord.Be still! and let distraction cease,Nor thus profane the Muse's peace;By sacred fiat I preside,The minstrel's master and his guide;He, whilst the chorus strains proceed,Shall follow with responsive reed;To measured notes whilst they advance,He in wild maze shall lead the dance.So generals in the front appear,Whilst music echoes from the rear.Now silence each discordant sound!For see, with ivy chaplet crown'd,Bacchus appears! He speaks in me—Hear, and obey the god's decree!—Cumberland.

What means this tumult? Why this rage?

What thunder shakes th' Athenian stage?

'Tis frantic Bromius bids me sing,

He tunes the pipe, he smites the string;

The Dryads with their chief accord,

Submit, and hail the drama's lord.

Be still! and let distraction cease,

Nor thus profane the Muse's peace;

By sacred fiat I preside,

The minstrel's master and his guide;

He, whilst the chorus strains proceed,

Shall follow with responsive reed;

To measured notes whilst they advance,

He in wild maze shall lead the dance.

So generals in the front appear,

Whilst music echoes from the rear.

Now silence each discordant sound!

For see, with ivy chaplet crown'd,

Bacchus appears! He speaks in me—

Hear, and obey the god's decree!—Cumberland.

The same.

What revel-rout is this? What noise is here?What barb'rous discord strikes my ear?What jarring sounds are these, that rageUnholy on the Bacchic stage?'Tis mine to sing in Bromius' praise—'Tis mine to laud the god in dithyrambic lays—As o'er the mountain's height,The woodland Nymphs among,I wing my rapid flight,And tune my varied song,Sweet as the melody of swans,—that laveTheir rustling pennons in the silver wave.Of the harmonious lay the Muse is sovereign still:Then let the minstrel follow, if he will—But not precede: whose stricter care should be,And more appropriate aim,To fan the lawless flameOf fiery youths, and lead them onTo deeds of drunkenness alone,The minister of revelry—When doors, with many a sturdy stroke,Fly from their bolts, to shivers broke,And captive beauty yields, but is not won.Down with the Phrygian pipe's discordant sound!Crackle, ye flames! and burn the monster foulTo very ashes—in whose notes are foundNought but what's harsh and flat,—no music for the soul,—The work of some vile handicraft. To thee,Great Dithyrambus! ivy-tressèd king!I stretch my hand—'tis here—and rapidlyMy feet in airy mazes fling.Listen my Doric lay; to thee, to thee I sing. —J. Bailey.

What revel-rout is this? What noise is here?

What barb'rous discord strikes my ear?

What jarring sounds are these, that rage

Unholy on the Bacchic stage?

'Tis mine to sing in Bromius' praise—

'Tis mine to laud the god in dithyrambic lays—

As o'er the mountain's height,

The woodland Nymphs among,

I wing my rapid flight,

And tune my varied song,

Sweet as the melody of swans,—that lave

Their rustling pennons in the silver wave.

Of the harmonious lay the Muse is sovereign still:

Then let the minstrel follow, if he will—

But not precede: whose stricter care should be,

And more appropriate aim,

To fan the lawless flame

Of fiery youths, and lead them on

To deeds of drunkenness alone,

The minister of revelry—

When doors, with many a sturdy stroke,

Fly from their bolts, to shivers broke,

And captive beauty yields, but is not won.

Down with the Phrygian pipe's discordant sound!

Crackle, ye flames! and burn the monster foul

To very ashes—in whose notes are found

Nought but what's harsh and flat,—no music for the soul,—

The work of some vile handicraft. To thee,

Great Dithyrambus! ivy-tressèd king!

I stretch my hand—'tis here—and rapidly

My feet in airy mazes fling.

Listen my Doric lay; to thee, to thee I sing. —J. Bailey.

Alexis.(Book xiv. § 15, p. 991.)

Now if a nativeDoctor prescribe, "Give him a porringerOf ptisan in the morning," we despise him.But in somebroguedisguised 'tis admirable.Thus he who speaks ofBeetis slighted, whileWe prick our ears if he but mentionBate,As ifBateknew some virtue not inBeet. —J. A. St. John.

Now if a native

Doctor prescribe, "Give him a porringer

Of ptisan in the morning," we despise him.

But in somebroguedisguised 'tis admirable.

Thus he who speaks ofBeetis slighted, while

We prick our ears if he but mentionBate,

As ifBateknew some virtue not inBeet. —J. A. St. John.

Semos.(Book xiv. § 16, p. 992.)

Make way there, a wide spaceYield to the god;For Dionysos has a mind to walkBolt upright through your midst. —J. A. St. John.

Make way there, a wide space

Yield to the god;

For Dionysos has a mind to walk

Bolt upright through your midst. —J. A. St. John.

Semos.(Book xiv. § 16, p. 992.)

Bacchus, to thee our muse belongs,Of simple chant, and varied lays;Nor fit for virgin ears our songs,Nor handed down from ancient days:Fresh flows the strain we pour to thee,Patron of joy and minstrelsy! —J. A. St. John.

Bacchus, to thee our muse belongs,

Of simple chant, and varied lays;

Nor fit for virgin ears our songs,

Nor handed down from ancient days:

Fresh flows the strain we pour to thee,

Patron of joy and minstrelsy! —J. A. St. John.

Alcæus.(Book xiv. § 23, p. 1000.)

Glitters with brass my mansion wide;The roof is deck'd on every sideIn martial pride,With helmets ranged in order brightAnd plumes of horse-hair nodding white,A gallant sight——Fit ornament for warrior's brow—And round the walk, in goodly row,Refulgent glowStout greaves of brass like burnish'd gold,And corslets there, in many a foldOf linen roll'd;And shields that in the battle frayThe routed losers of the dayHave cast away;Eubœan falchions too are seen,With rich embroider'd belts betweenOf dazzing sheen:And gaudy surcoats piled around,The spoils of chiefs in war renown'd,May there be found.These, and all else that here you see,Are fruits of glorious victoryAchieved by me.—Bland.

Glitters with brass my mansion wide;

The roof is deck'd on every side

In martial pride,

With helmets ranged in order bright

And plumes of horse-hair nodding white,

A gallant sight—

—Fit ornament for warrior's brow—

And round the walk, in goodly row,

Refulgent glow

Stout greaves of brass like burnish'd gold,

And corslets there, in many a fold

Of linen roll'd;

And shields that in the battle fray

The routed losers of the day

Have cast away;

Eubœan falchions too are seen,

With rich embroider'd belts between

Of dazzing sheen:

And gaudy surcoats piled around,

The spoils of chiefs in war renown'd,

May there be found.

These, and all else that here you see,

Are fruits of glorious victory

Achieved by me.—Bland.

(Book xiv. § 27, p. 1004.)

Where is my lovely parsley, say?My violets, roses, where are they?My parsley, roses, violets fair,Where are my flowers? Tell me where. —J. A. St. John.

Where is my lovely parsley, say?

My violets, roses, where are they?

My parsley, roses, violets fair,

Where are my flowers? Tell me where. —J. A. St. John.

Philetærus.(Book xiv. § 34, p. 1011.)

O Zeus! how glorious 'tis to die while piercing flutes are near,Pouring their stirring melodies into the faltering ear;On these alone doth Eros smile, within whose realms of night,Where vulgar ghosts in shivering bands, all strangers to delight,In leaky tub from Styx's flood the icy waters bear,Condemn'd, for woman's lovely voice, its moaning sounds to hear. —J. A. St. John.

O Zeus! how glorious 'tis to die while piercing flutes are near,

Pouring their stirring melodies into the faltering ear;

On these alone doth Eros smile, within whose realms of night,

Where vulgar ghosts in shivering bands, all strangers to delight,

In leaky tub from Styx's flood the icy waters bear,

Condemn'd, for woman's lovely voice, its moaning sounds to hear. —J. A. St. John.

Athenion.(Book xiv. § 80, p. 1056.)

A.What! know you not that cookery has muchContributed to piety? attend,And I will tell you how. This art at firstMade the fierce cannibal a man; impress'dUpon his rugged nature the desireOf better food than his own flesh; prescribedOrder and rule in all his actions; gave himThat polish and respect for social lifeWhich now makes up his sum of happiness.B.Say by what means.A.Attend and you shall hear.Time was that men, like rude and savage beasts,Prey'd on each other. From such bloody feastsA flood of evils burst upon the world;Till one arose, much wiser than the rest,And chose a tender victim from his flockFor sacrifice; roasting the flesh, he foundThe savoury morsel good, and better farThan human carcass, from which time roast meatBecame the general food, approved by all.In order to create varietyOf the same dish, the art of cookeryBegan t' invent new modes of dressing it.In off'rings to the gods we still preserveThe ancient custom, and abstain from salt;For in those early days salt was not used,Though now we have it in abundance; still,In solemn sacrifices, we conformTo usage of old times: in private mealsHe who can season best is the best cook,And the desire of savoury meat inspiresThe invention of new sauces, which conduceTo bring the art of cookery to perfection.B.You are, indeed, a new Palæphatus.A.Use gave experience, and experience skill.As cooks acquired more knowledge, they preparedThe delicate tripe, with nice ingredients mix'd,To give it a new relish; follow'd soonThe tender kid, sew'd up between two covers,Stew'd delicately down, and smoking hot,That melted in the mouth; the savoury hashCame next, and that disguised with so much art,And season'd with fresh herbs, and pungent sauce,That you would think it most delicious fish.Then salted meats, with store of vegetables,And fragrant honey, till the pamper'd taste,High fed with luscious dainties, grew too niceTo feed on human garbage, and mankindBegan to feel the joys of social life;The scatter'd tribes unite; towns soon were builtAnd peopled with industrious citizens.These and a thousand other benefitsWere the result of cookery alone.B.Oh, rare! where will this end?A.To us you oweThe costly sacrifice, we slay the victims,We pour the free libations, and to usThe gods themselves lend a propitious ear,And for our special merits scatter blessingsOn all the human race; because from usAnd from our art, mankind were first inducedTo live the life of reason, and the godsReceived due honour.B.Prithee rest awhile,And leave religion out. —Anon.

A.What! know you not that cookery has much

Contributed to piety? attend,

And I will tell you how. This art at first

Made the fierce cannibal a man; impress'd

Upon his rugged nature the desire

Of better food than his own flesh; prescribed

Order and rule in all his actions; gave him

That polish and respect for social life

Which now makes up his sum of happiness.

B.Say by what means.

A.Attend and you shall hear.

Time was that men, like rude and savage beasts,

Prey'd on each other. From such bloody feasts

A flood of evils burst upon the world;

Till one arose, much wiser than the rest,

And chose a tender victim from his flock

For sacrifice; roasting the flesh, he found

The savoury morsel good, and better far

Than human carcass, from which time roast meat

Became the general food, approved by all.

In order to create variety

Of the same dish, the art of cookery

Began t' invent new modes of dressing it.

In off'rings to the gods we still preserve

The ancient custom, and abstain from salt;

For in those early days salt was not used,

Though now we have it in abundance; still,

In solemn sacrifices, we conform

To usage of old times: in private meals

He who can season best is the best cook,

And the desire of savoury meat inspires

The invention of new sauces, which conduce

To bring the art of cookery to perfection.

B.You are, indeed, a new Palæphatus.

A.Use gave experience, and experience skill.

As cooks acquired more knowledge, they prepared

The delicate tripe, with nice ingredients mix'd,

To give it a new relish; follow'd soon

The tender kid, sew'd up between two covers,

Stew'd delicately down, and smoking hot,

That melted in the mouth; the savoury hash

Came next, and that disguised with so much art,

And season'd with fresh herbs, and pungent sauce,

That you would think it most delicious fish.

Then salted meats, with store of vegetables,

And fragrant honey, till the pamper'd taste,

High fed with luscious dainties, grew too nice

To feed on human garbage, and mankind

Began to feel the joys of social life;

The scatter'd tribes unite; towns soon were built

And peopled with industrious citizens.

These and a thousand other benefits

Were the result of cookery alone.

B.Oh, rare! where will this end?

A.To us you owe

The costly sacrifice, we slay the victims,

We pour the free libations, and to us

The gods themselves lend a propitious ear,

And for our special merits scatter blessings

On all the human race; because from us

And from our art, mankind were first induced

To live the life of reason, and the gods

Received due honour.

B.Prithee rest awhile,

And leave religion out. —Anon.

The same.

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