GREEK ANTHOLOGY.—No. V.
Whew! baked, parched, roasted, toasted, seethed, stewed, boiled, broiled, and all the other synonymes of igniferous horror. Oh! ye dark-skinned Ethiops, how I love you! Verily I am an amalgamationist. “Ye are black, but comely as the tents of Kedar, as the curtains of Solomon.” Though angry Phoebus did once pour his fierceness upon your sweating brows, till they were dusky as the wings of night, yet are ye not misimproved thereby; for your impenetrable nigritude, surmounted by your oily fleece—more precious than that golden one, after which sailed Jason and the Argonauts—can bid defiance to the heat of Hyperion. One would think young Phoebus had again mounted the car of the far-flinging Apollo, when, as Ovid has it,
“Inferiusque suis fraternos currere LunaAdmiratur equos; ambustaque nubila fumant.”
“Inferiusque suis fraternos currere LunaAdmiratur equos; ambustaque nubila fumant.”
“Inferiusque suis fraternos currere LunaAdmiratur equos; ambustaque nubila fumant.”
“Inferiusque suis fraternos currere Luna
Admiratur equos; ambustaque nubila fumant.”
The winds are currents of fused lead, and the atmosphere is a huge sudorific. What relation has the weather to Greek Anthology? “Much every way.” The heat unnerves the body, the body depresses the mind, and the weakness of the mind deteriorates Greek Anthology. Yet now that the god of day is on the outmost skirts of the horizon, let me invoke thy still descent, Oh! Muse of Evening, in the exquisite words of Collins.
“Oh, Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sunSits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,With brede ethereal wove,O’erhang his wavy bed—” &c. &c.
“Oh, Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sunSits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,With brede ethereal wove,O’erhang his wavy bed—” &c. &c.
“Oh, Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sunSits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,With brede ethereal wove,O’erhang his wavy bed—” &c. &c.
“Oh, Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed—” &c. &c.
’Tis of no use. Inspiration cannot be awakened to-night. The summit of Soracte is no longer ‘white with snow’—the waters of Helicon stand at blood-heat—the fountain of Bandusia, “splendidior vitro,” has seethed its own frogs—and the gushings of Arethusa herself are hot enough to boil eggs. Nevertheless, one draught, oh goddess.
‘Extremum hunc, mihi concede laborem.’
‘Extremum hunc, mihi concede laborem.’
With nose so huge, Olympicus, bewareHow thy mad feet approach a fountain cool,And in thy wanderings, shun with heedful careThe sleeping mirror of the mountain-pool,For, like Narcissus of unhappy fate,Thy wondrous phiz will through the waters shine,And as he died of love, so thou of hateWilt gaze astonished, and with anguish pine.
With nose so huge, Olympicus, bewareHow thy mad feet approach a fountain cool,And in thy wanderings, shun with heedful careThe sleeping mirror of the mountain-pool,For, like Narcissus of unhappy fate,Thy wondrous phiz will through the waters shine,And as he died of love, so thou of hateWilt gaze astonished, and with anguish pine.
With nose so huge, Olympicus, bewareHow thy mad feet approach a fountain cool,And in thy wanderings, shun with heedful careThe sleeping mirror of the mountain-pool,For, like Narcissus of unhappy fate,Thy wondrous phiz will through the waters shine,And as he died of love, so thou of hateWilt gaze astonished, and with anguish pine.
With nose so huge, Olympicus, beware
How thy mad feet approach a fountain cool,
And in thy wanderings, shun with heedful care
The sleeping mirror of the mountain-pool,
For, like Narcissus of unhappy fate,
Thy wondrous phiz will through the waters shine,
And as he died of love, so thou of hate
Wilt gaze astonished, and with anguish pine.
The following is trite, yet true. The ambitious might, but will not profit thereby. What is so obvious is forgotten.
All names, all ranks are levelled by the grave,The bloom of beauty, and the pride of state,And he, who, living, was a humble slave,Death renders even as the monarch great.
All names, all ranks are levelled by the grave,The bloom of beauty, and the pride of state,And he, who, living, was a humble slave,Death renders even as the monarch great.
All names, all ranks are levelled by the grave,The bloom of beauty, and the pride of state,And he, who, living, was a humble slave,Death renders even as the monarch great.
All names, all ranks are levelled by the grave,
The bloom of beauty, and the pride of state,
And he, who, living, was a humble slave,
Death renders even as the monarch great.
To a statue of Venus at Cnidos, by Praxiteles.
No! not the artist’s skillful hand,Nor chisel wrought that form divine;For thus didst thou on Ida stand,And thus before the shepherd shine.Around the pillar, that surmounts my tomb,No garlands wreathe, and scatter no perfume,Nor burn the watch fire—’tis an empty stone—Thy waste is useless, for my race is run.Give what thou hast, while life is in its bud—These late libations turn mydusttomud.The buried drink not; for, with life’s last charms,Forgetfulness enshrouds them in her arms.
No! not the artist’s skillful hand,Nor chisel wrought that form divine;For thus didst thou on Ida stand,And thus before the shepherd shine.Around the pillar, that surmounts my tomb,No garlands wreathe, and scatter no perfume,Nor burn the watch fire—’tis an empty stone—Thy waste is useless, for my race is run.Give what thou hast, while life is in its bud—These late libations turn mydusttomud.The buried drink not; for, with life’s last charms,Forgetfulness enshrouds them in her arms.
No! not the artist’s skillful hand,Nor chisel wrought that form divine;For thus didst thou on Ida stand,And thus before the shepherd shine.
No! not the artist’s skillful hand,
Nor chisel wrought that form divine;
For thus didst thou on Ida stand,
And thus before the shepherd shine.
Around the pillar, that surmounts my tomb,No garlands wreathe, and scatter no perfume,Nor burn the watch fire—’tis an empty stone—Thy waste is useless, for my race is run.Give what thou hast, while life is in its bud—These late libations turn mydusttomud.The buried drink not; for, with life’s last charms,Forgetfulness enshrouds them in her arms.
Around the pillar, that surmounts my tomb,
No garlands wreathe, and scatter no perfume,
Nor burn the watch fire—’tis an empty stone—
Thy waste is useless, for my race is run.
Give what thou hast, while life is in its bud—
These late libations turn mydusttomud.
The buried drink not; for, with life’s last charms,
Forgetfulness enshrouds them in her arms.
There is very little poetry in the following commemoration: but, if the poor fellow did actually perform thesubscribedfeats, and that for fame, he deserved to be immortalized.
To the statue of Phayllus, a Crotonian, and victor in thefive games.
Feet fifty-five Phayllus leaped,(At which the Muses wondered)And when the disc he raised and hurled,He conquered full five hundred.
Feet fifty-five Phayllus leaped,(At which the Muses wondered)And when the disc he raised and hurled,He conquered full five hundred.
Feet fifty-five Phayllus leaped,(At which the Muses wondered)And when the disc he raised and hurled,He conquered full five hundred.
Feet fifty-five Phayllus leaped,
(At which the Muses wondered)
And when the disc he raised and hurled,
He conquered full five hundred.
The tettix (a species of balm-cricket) to its shepherd-captors.
Why, oh ye shepherds, from the dew-moist boughsWith thriftless chase the tettix do ye take,The Dryads’ wayside singer, who arouseThe lonely echoes, till the woods awake,And chant at mid-day, where the wood-nymph dwellsAmong the mountains and the darkling dells.The black-bird, starling, and the thrush assault,For they are daily plunderers of you;’Tis right that they should perish for their fault;But who is jealous for the morning-dew?
Why, oh ye shepherds, from the dew-moist boughsWith thriftless chase the tettix do ye take,The Dryads’ wayside singer, who arouseThe lonely echoes, till the woods awake,And chant at mid-day, where the wood-nymph dwellsAmong the mountains and the darkling dells.The black-bird, starling, and the thrush assault,For they are daily plunderers of you;’Tis right that they should perish for their fault;But who is jealous for the morning-dew?
Why, oh ye shepherds, from the dew-moist boughsWith thriftless chase the tettix do ye take,The Dryads’ wayside singer, who arouseThe lonely echoes, till the woods awake,And chant at mid-day, where the wood-nymph dwellsAmong the mountains and the darkling dells.The black-bird, starling, and the thrush assault,For they are daily plunderers of you;’Tis right that they should perish for their fault;But who is jealous for the morning-dew?
Why, oh ye shepherds, from the dew-moist boughs
With thriftless chase the tettix do ye take,
The Dryads’ wayside singer, who arouse
The lonely echoes, till the woods awake,
And chant at mid-day, where the wood-nymph dwells
Among the mountains and the darkling dells.
The black-bird, starling, and the thrush assault,
For they are daily plunderers of you;
’Tis right that they should perish for their fault;
But who is jealous for the morning-dew?