vii. 346):

Of our great love, Parthenophil, This little stone abideth still Sole sign and token: I seek thee yet, and yet shall seek, Though faint mine eyes, my spirit weak With prayers unspoken.

Meanwhile, best friend of friends, do thou, If this the cruel fates allow By death's dark river, Among those shadowy people, drink No drop for me on Lethe's brink: Forget me never!

Of all the literary epitaphs, by far the most interesting are those written for the poets, historians, and philosophers of Greece. Reserving these for separate consideration, I pass now to mention a few which belong as much to the pure epigram as to the epitaph. When, for example, we read two very clever poems on the daughters of Lycambes (i. 339), two again on a comically drunken old woman (i. 340, 360), and five on a man who has been first murdered and then buried by his murderer (i. 340), we see that, though the form of the epitaph has been adopted, clever rhetoricians, anxious only to display their skill, have been at work in rivalry. Sardanapalus, the eponym of Oriental luxury, furnishes a good subject for this style of composition. His epitaph runs thus in the Appendix Planudea (ii. 532):

#eu eidôs hoti thnêtos ephys, ton thymon aexe terpomenos thaliêisi; thanonti soi outis onêsis; kai gar egô spodos eimi, Ninou megalês basileusas. toss' echô hoss' ephagon kai ephybrisa, kai met' erôtos terpn' edaên; ta de polla kai olbia keina leleiptai. hêde sophê biotoio parainesis anthrôpoisin.#[180]

We find only the fourth and fifth lines among the sepulchral epigrams of the Anthology of Cephalas (i. 334), followed by a clever parody composed by the Theban Crates. Demetrius, the Spartan coward, is another instance of this rhetorical exercise. Among the two or three which treat of him I quote the following (i. 317):

#hanik' apo ptolemou tressanta se dexato matêr, panta ton hoplistan kosmon olôlekota, auta toi phonian, Damatrie, autika lonchan eipe dia plateôn ôsamena lagonôn; katthane, mêd' echetô Sparta psogon; ou gar ekeina êmplaken, ei deilous toumon ethrepse gala.#[181]

Agathias writes a very characteristic elegy on Lais (i. 315):

#herpôn eis Ephyrên taphon edrakon amphi keleuthon Laïdos archaiês, hôs to charagma legei; dakry d' epispeisas, chairois gynai, ek gar akouês; oikteirô se g', ephên, hên paros ouk idomên; a poson êïtheôn noon êkaches; all' ide Lêthên naieis, aglaïên en chthoni katthemenê.#[182]

An epitaph on the inutility of epitaphs is an excellent novelty, especially when the witty poet (Paulus Silentiarius) has the humor to make the ghost eager to speak while the wayfarer is inattentive (i. 332):

#ounoma moi. ti de touto? patris de moi. es ti de touto? kleinou d' eimi genous. ei gar aphaurotatou? zêsas d' endoxôs elipon bion. ei gar adoxôs? keimai d' enthade nyn. tis tini tauta legeis?#[183]

The value of the epitaphs on poets and great men of Greece is this--that, besides being in many cases of almost perfect beauty, they contain the quintessence of ancient criticism. Every epithet is carefully so chosen as to express what the Greeks thought peculiar and appropriate to the spirit and the works of their heroes.

Orpheus is the subject of the following exquisite elegy by Antipater of Sidon (i. 274):

#ouketi thelgomenas, Orpheu, dryas, ouketi petras axeis, ou thêrôn autonomous agelas; ouketi koimaseis anemôn bromon, ouchi chalazan, ou niphetôn syrmous ou patageusan hala. ôleo gar; se de polla katôdyranto thygatres Mnamosynas, matêr d' exocha Kalliopa; ti phthimenois stonacheumen eph' hyiasin, hanik' alalkein tôn paidôn Aïdên oude theois dynamis?#[184]

Sophocles receives a gift of flowers and ivy, and quiet sleep from Simmias the Theban (i. 277):

#êrem' hyper tymboio Sophokleos, êrema, kisse, herpyzois, chloerous ekprocheôn plokamous, kai petalon pantê thalloi rhodon, hê te philorrhôx ampelos, hygra perix klêmata cheuamenê, heineken euepiês pinytophronos, hên ho melichros êskêsen Mouseôn ammiga kak Charitôn.#[185]

Among the nine epitaphs on Euripides none is more delicate than the following by Ion (i. 282):

#chaire melampetalois, Euripidê, en gyaloisi; Pierias ton aei nyktos echôn thalamon; isthi d' hypo chthonos ôn, hoti soi kleos aphthiton estai ison Homêreiais aenaois charisin.#[186]

Where could a poet be better lulled to rest than among the black-leaved hollows of Pieria? But the most touching tribute to Euripides is from the pen of a brother dramatist, the comic poet Philemon (ii. 94):

#ei tais alêtheiaisin hoi tethnêkotes aisthêsin eichon, andres hôs phasin tines, apênxamên an hôst' idein Euripidên.#[187]

Aristophanes is praised by Antipater of Thessalonica (ii. 37) as the poet who laughed and hated rightly:

#kômike kai styxas axia kai gelasas.#

His plays are characterized as full of fearful graces, #phoberôn plêthomenoi charitôn#. Over the grave of Anacreon, who receives more tributes of this kind than any other poet, roses are to bloom, and wine is to be poured, and the thoughts of Smerdies, Bathyllus, and Megistias are to linger. Antipater of Sidon in particular paid honor to his grave (i. 278):

#thalloi tetrakorymbos, Anakreon, amphi se kissos habra te leimônôn porphyreôn petala; pêgai d' arginoentos anathlibointo galaktos, euôdes d' apo gês hêdy cheoito methy, ophra ke toi spodiê te kai ostea terpsin arêtai, ei dê tis phthimenois chrimptetai euphrosyna, ô to philon sterxas, phile, barbiton, ô syn aoidâi panta diaplôsas kai syn erôti bion.#[188]

The same poet begins another epitaph thus:

#tymbos Anakreiontos; ho Têïos enthade kyknos heudei chê paidôn zôrotatê maniê.#

Less cheerful are the sepulchres of the satirists. We are bidden not to wake the sleeping wasp upon the grave of Hipponax (i. 350):

#ô xeine, pheuge ton chalazepê taphon ton phrikton Hippônaktos, houte cha tephra iambiazei Boupaleion es stygos, mê pôs egeirêis sphêka ton koimômenon, hos oud' en hâidêi nyn kekoimiken cholon, skazousi metrois ortha toxeusas epê.#[189]

The same thought is repeated with even more of descriptive energy in an epitaph on Archilochus (i. 287):

#sêma tod' Archilochou parapontion, hos pote pikrên mousan echidnaiôi prôtos ebapse cholôi, haimaxas Helikôna ton hêmeron; oide Lykambês myromenos trissôn hammata thygaterôn; êrema dê parameipson, hodoipore, mê pote toude kinêsêis tymbôi sphêkas ephezomenous.#[190]

Diogenes offers similar opportunities for clever writing. The best of his epitaphs is this well-known but anonymous dialogue (i. 285):

#eipe, kyon, tinos andros ephestôs sêma phylasseis? tou kynos. alla tis ên houtos anêr ho Kyôn? Diogenês. genos eipe. Sinôpeus. hos pithon ôikei? kai mala; nyn de thanôn asteras oikon echei.#[191]

The epitaphs on Erinna, who died when she was only nineteen, are charged with the thought which so often recurs when we reflect on poets, like Chatterton, untimely slain--what would not they have done, if they had lived? (i. 275):

#ho glykys Êrinnês houtos ponos, ouchi polys men hôs an parthenikas enneakaideketeus, all' heterôn pollôn dynatôteros; ei d' Aïdas hoi mê tachys êlthe, tis an talikon esch' onoma?#[192]

Sappho rouses a louder strain of celebration (i. 276):

#Sapphô toi keutheis chthôn Aioli tan meta Mousais athanatais thnatan Mousan aeidomenan, han Kypris kai Erôs syn ham' etraphon, has meta Peithô eplek' aeizôon Pieridôn stephanon, Helladi men terpsin, soi de kleos; ô trielikton Moirai dineusai nêma kat' êlakatas, pôs ouk eklôsasthe panaphthiton êmar aoidôi aphthita mêsamena dôr' Helikôniadôn?#[193]

This is the composition of Antipater of Sidon, who excels in this special style. Without losing either the movement or the passion of poetry, he is always delicate and subtle in his judgments. His epigrams on Pindar are full of fire (i. 280):

#Pierikan salpinga, ton euageôn baryn hymnôn chalkeutan, katechei Pindaron hade konis, hou melos eisaïôn phthenxaio ken, hôs pote Mousôn en Kadmou thalamois smênos aneplasato.#[194]

The very quintessence of criticism is contained in the phrases #salpinx#, #chalkeutas#. The Appendix Planudea (ii. 590) contains another epitaph on Pindar by Antipater, which for its beautiful presentation of two legends connected with his life deserves to be quoted:

#nebreiôn hoposon salpinx hyperiachen aulôn, tosson hyper pasas ekrage seio chelys; oude matên hapalois peri cheilesin esmos ekeinos eplase kêrodeton, Pindare, seio meli. martys ho Mainalios keroeis theos hymnon aeisas ton seo kai nomiôn lêsamenos donakôn.#[195]

It is impossible to do justice to all these utterances on the early poets. Æschylus (i. 281):

#ho tragikon phônêma kai ophryoessan aoidên pyrgôsas stibarêi prôtos en euepiêi.#

Alcman (i. 277):

#ton charient' Alkmana, ton hymnêtêr' hymenaiôn kyknon, ton Mousôn axia melpsamenon.#

Stesichorus (ii. 36):

#Homêrikon hos t' apo rheuma espasas oikeiois, Stêsichor', en kamatois.#

Ibycus (ii. 36):

#hêdy te Peithous, Ibyke, kai paidôn anthos amêsamene.#

Enough has been quoted to show the delicate and appreciative criticism of the later and lighter Greek poets for the earlier and grander. It is also consolatory to find that almost no unknown great ones are praised in these epigrams; whence we may conclude that the masterpieces of Greek literature are almost as numerous now as they were in the age of Nero. The philosophers receive their due meed of celebration. Plato can boast of two splendid anonymous epitaphs (i. 285):

#gaia men en kolpois kryptei tode sôma Platônos, psychê d' athanaton taxin echei makarôn.#

And--

#aiete, tipte bebêkas hyper taphon? ê tinos, eipe, asteroenta theôn oikon aposkopeeis? psychês eimi Platônos apoptamenês es Olympon eikôn; sôma de gê gêgenes Atthis echei.#[196]

It is curious to find both Thucydides (ii. 119) and Lycophron (ii. 38) characterized by their difficulty.

Closely allied in point of subject to many of the epitaphs are the so-called hortatory epigrams, #epigrammata protreptika#. These consist partly of advice to young men and girls to take while they may the pleasures of the moment, partly of wise saws and maxims borrowed from the Stoics and the Cynics, from Euripides and the comic poets. Lucian and Palladas are the two most successful poets in this style. Palladas, whose life falls in the first half of the fifth century, a pagan, who regarded with disgust the establishment of Christianity, attained by a style of "elegant mediocrity" to the perfection of proverbial philosophy in verse. When we remember that the works of Euripides, Menander, Philemon, Theophrastus, and the Stoics were mines from which to quarry sentiments about the conduct of life, we understand the general average of excellence below which he rarely falls and above which he never rises. Yet in this section, as in the others of the Anthology, some of the anonymous epigrams are the best. Here is one (ii. 251):

#eis aïdên itheia katêlysis, eit' ap' Athênôn steichois, eite nekys, niseai ek Meroês; mê se g' aniatô patrês apotêle thanonta; pantothen heis ho pherôn eis aïdên anemos.#[197]

Here is another, which repeats the old proverb of the cup and the lip (ii. 257):

#polla metaxy pelei kylikos kai cheileos akrou.#

And another, on the difference between the leaders and the followers in the pomp of life (ii. 270):

#polloi toi narthêkophoroi pauroi de te bakchoi.#

Equally without author's name is the following excellent prayer (ii. 271):

#Zeu basileu ta men esthla kai euchomenois kai aneuktois ammi didou; ta de lygra kai euchomenôn aperykois.#[198]

Lucian gives the following good advice on the use of wealth (ii. 256):

#hôs tethnêxomenos tôn sôn agathôn apolaue, hôs de biôsomenos pheideo sôn kteanôn; esti d' anêr sophos houtos hos amphô tauta noêsas pheidoi kai dapanêi metron ephêrmosato.#[199]

Agathias asks why we need fear death (ii. 264):

#ton thanaton ti phobeisthe, ton hêsychiês genetêra, ton pauonta nosous kai peniês odynas? mounon hapax thnêtois paraginetai, oude pot' auton eiden tis thnêtôn deuteron erchomenon; hai de nosoi pollai kai poikilai, allot' ep' allon erchomenai thnêtôn kai metaballomenai.#[200]

The remainder of my quotations from this section will all be taken from Palladas. Here is his version of the proverb attributed to Democritus that life's a stage (ii. 265):

#skênê pas ho bios kai paignion; ê mathe paizein tên spoudên metatheis ê phere tas odynas.#[201]

Here, again, is the old complaint that man is Fortune's plaything (ii. 266):

#paignion esti tychês meropôn bios, oiktros, alêtês, ploutou kai peniês messothi rhembomenos. kai tous men katagousa palin sphairêdon aeirei, tous d' apo tôn nephelôn eis aïdên katagei.#[202]

Here again, but cadenced in iambics, is the Flight of Time (ii. 266):

#ô tês bracheias hêdonês tês tou biou; tên oxytêta tou chronou penthêsate; hêmeis kathezomestha kai koimômetha, mochthountes ê tryphôntes; ho de chronos trechei, trechei kath' hêmôn tôn talaipôrôn brotôn, pherôn hekastou tôi biôi katastrophên.#[203]

The next epigram is literally bathed in tears (ii. 267):

#dakrycheôn genomên kai dakrysas apothnêskô; dakrysi d' en pollois ton bion heuron holon. ô genos anthrôpôn polydakryton, asthenes, oiktron, phainomenon kata gês kai dialyomenon.#[204]

When he chooses to be cynical, Palladas can present the physical conditions of human life with a crude brutality which is worthy of a monk composing a chapter _De contemptu humanæ miseriæ_. It is enough to allude to the epigrams upon the birth (ii. 259) and the breath (ii. 265) of man. To this had philosophy fallen in the death of Greece. One more quotation from Palladas has a touch of pathos. The old order has yielded to the new: Theodosius has closed the temples: the Greeks are in ashes: their very hopes remain among the dead (ii. 268):

#Hellênes esmen andres espodômenoi, nekrôn echontes elpidas tethammenas; anestraphê gar panta nyn ta pragmata.#

With this wail the thin, lamentable voice of the desiccated rhetorician ceases.

Akin to these hortatory epigrams, in their tone of settled melancholy, are some of the satiric and convivial. It is necessary, when we think of the Greeks as the brightest and sunniest of all races, to remember what songs they sang at their banquets, and to comfort ourselves with the reflection that between their rose-wreaths and the bright Hellenic sky above them hung for them, no less than for ourselves, the cloud of death.

What more dismal drinking-song can be conceived than this? (i. 337):

#ouden hamartêsas genomên para tôn me tekontôn; gennêtheis d' ho talas erchomai eis Aïdên; ô mixis goneôn thanatêphoros; ômoi anankês hê me prospelasei tôi stygerôi thanatôi; ouden eôn genomên; palin essomai hôs paros ouden; ouden kai mêden tôn meropôn to genos; leipon moi to kypellon apostilbôson, hetaire, kai lypês akonên ton Bromion pareche.#[205]

The good sense of Cephalas placed it among the epitaphs; for, in truth, it is the quintessence of the despair of the grave. Yet its last couplet forces us to drag it from the place of tombs, and put it into the mouth of some late reveller of the decadence of Hellas. It has to my ear the ring of a drinking-song sung in a room with closed shutters, after the guests have departed, by some sad companion who does not know that the dawn has gone forth and the birds are aloft in the air. The shadow of night is upon him. Though Christ be risen and the sun of hope is in the sky, he is still as cheerless as Mimnermus. If space sufficed, it would be both interesting and profitable to compare this mood of the epigrammatists with that expressed by Omar Khayyám, the Persian poet of Khorassan, in whose quatrains philosophy, melancholy, and the sense of beauty are so wonderfully mingled that to surpass their pathos is impossible in verse.[206] Here is another of the same tone (ii. 287):

#êôs ex êous parapempetai, eit' amelountôn hêmôn exaiphnês hêxei ho porphyreos, kai tous men têxas, tous d' optêsas, enious de physêsas axei pantas es hen barathron.#[207]

And another with a more delicate ring of melancholy in the last couplet (ii. 289):

#hypnôeis ô 'taire; to de skyphos auto boâi se; egreo, mê terpou moiridiêi meletêi; mê pheisêi Diodôre; labros d' eis Bakchon olisthôn achris epi sphalerou zôropotei gonatos; esseth' hot' ou piomestha, polys polys; all' ag' epeigou. hê synetê krotaphôn haptetai hêmeterôn.#[208]

And yet another (ii. 294), which sounds like the Florentine Carnival Song composed by Lorenzo de' Medici--

Chi vuol esser lieto sia; Di doman non è certezza--

#pine kai euphrainou; ti gar aurion ê ti to mellon oudeis ginôskei; mê treche, mê kopia; hôs dynasai, charisai, metados, phage, thnêta logizou; to zên tou mê zên ouden holôs apechei; pas ho bios toiosde rhopê monon; an prolabêis sou an de thanêis heterou panta; sy d' ouden echeis.#[209]

But the majority of the #epigrammata skôptika#, or jesting epigrams, are not of this kind. They are written for the most part, in Roman style, on ugly old women, misers, stupid actors, doctors to dream of whom is death, bad painters, poets who kill you with their elegies, men so light that the wind carries them about like stubble, or so thin that a gossamer is strong enough to strangle them; vices, meannesses, deformities of all kinds. Lucillius, a Greek Martial of the age of Nero, is both best and most prolific in this kind of composition. But of all the sections of the Anthology this is certainly the least valuable. The true superiority of Greek to Latin literature in all its species is that it is far more a work of pure beauty, of unmixed poetry. In Lucillius the Hellenic muse has deigned for once to assume the Roman toga, and to show that if she chose she could rival the hoarse-throated satirists of the empire on their own ground. But she has abandoned her lofty eminence, and descended to a lower level. The same may be said in brief about the versified problems and riddles (ii. pp. 467-490), which are not much better than elegant acrostics of this or the last century. It must, however, be remarked that the last-mentioned section contains a valuable collection of Greek oracles.

Of all the amatory poets of the Anthology, by far the noblest is Meleager. He was a native of Gadara in Palestine, as he tells us in an epitaph composed in his old age:

#patra de me teknoi Atthis en Assyriois naiomena, Gadara.#[210]

It is curious to think of this town, which from our childhood we have connected with the miracle of the demoniac and the swine, as a Syrian Athens, the birthplace of the most mellifluous of all erotic songsters. Meleager's date is half a century or thereabouts before the Christian era. He therefore was ignorant of the work and the words of One who made the insignificant place of his origin world-famous. Of his history we know really nothing more than his own epigrams convey; the two following couplets from one of his epitaphs record his sojourn during different periods of his life at Tyre and at Ceos:

#hon theopais êndrôse Tyros Gadarôn th' hiera chthôn; Kôs d' eratê Meropôn presbyn egêrotrophei. All' ei men Syros essi, Salam; ei d' oun syge Phoinix, Naidios; ei d' Hellên, chaire; to d' auto phrason.#[211]

This triple salutation, coming from the son of Gadara and Tyre and Ceos, brings us close to the pure humanity which distinguished Meleager. Modern men, judging him by the standard of Christian morality, may feel justified in flinging a stone at the poet who celebrated his Muiscos and his Diocles, his Heliodora and his Zenophila, in too voluptuous verse. But those who are content to criticise a pagan by his own rule of right and wrong will admit that Meleager had a spirit of the subtlest and the sweetest, a heart of the tenderest, and a genius of the purest that has been ever granted to an elegist of earthly love. While reading his verse, it is impossible to avoid laying down the book and pausing to exclaim: How modern is the phrase, how true the passion, how unique the style! Though Meleager's voice has been mute a score of centuries, it yet rings clear and vivid in our ears; because the man was a real poet, feeling intensely, expressing forcibly and beautifully, steeping his style in the fountain of tender sentiment which is eternal. We find in him none of the cynicism which defiles Straton, or of the voluptuary's despair which gives to Agathias the morbid splendor of decay, the colors of corruption. All is simple, lively, fresh with joyous experience in his verse.

The first great merit of Meleager as a poet is limpidity. A crystal is not more transparent than his style; but the crystal to which we compare it must be colored with the softest flush of beryl or of amethyst. Here is a little poem in praise of Heliodora (i. 85):

#plexô leukoïon, plexô d' hapalên hama myrtois narkisson, plexô kai ta gelônta krina, plexô kai krokon hêdyn; epiplexô d' hyakinthon porphyreên, plexô kai philerasta rhoda, hôs an epi krotaphois myrobostrychou Hêliodôras euplokamon chaitên anthobolêi stephanos.#[212]

Nothing can be more simple than the expression, more exquisite than the cadence of these lines. The same may be said about the elegy on Cleariste (i. 307):

#ou gamon all' Aïdan epinymphidion Klearista dexato, parthenias hammata lyomena; arti gar hesperioi nymphas epi diklisin acheun lôtoi kai thalamôn eplatageunto thyrai; êôioi d' ololygmon anekragon, ek d' Hymenaios sigatheis goeron phthegma metharmosato; hai d' autai kai phengos edâidouchoun para pastôi peukai, kai phthimenâi nerthen ephainon hodon.#[213]

The thought of this next epigram recalls the song to Ageanax in Theocritus's seventh idyl (ii. 402):

#ourios empneusas nautais Notos, ô dyserôtes, hêmisy meu psychas harpasen Andragathon; tris makares naes, tris d' olbia kymata pontou, tetraki d' eudaimôn paidophorôn anemos; eith' eiên delphis hin' emois bastaktos ep' ômois porthmeutheis esidêi tan glykypaida Rhodon.#[214]

These quotations are sufficient to set forth the purity of Meleager's style, though many more examples might have been borrowed from his epigrams on the cicada, on the mosquitoes who tormented Zenophila, on Antiochus, who would have been Eros if Eros had worn the boy's petasos and chlamys. The next point to notice about him is the suggestiveness of his language, his faculty of creating the right epithets and turning the perfect phrase that suits his meaning. The fragrance of the second line in this couplet is undefinable but potent:

#ô dyserôs psychê pausai pote kai di' oneirôn eidôlois kalleus kôpha chliainomenê.#[215]

It is what all day-dreamers and castle-builders, not to speak of the dreamers of the night, must fain cry out in their despair. The common motive of a lover pledging his absent mistress is elevated to a region of novel beauty by the passionate repetition of words in this first line:

#enchei kai palin eipe palin palin Hêliodôras.#[216]

In the same way a very old thought receives new exquisiteness the last couplet of the epitaph on Heliodora:

#alla se gounoumai Ga pantrophe tan panodyrton êrema sois kolpois mater enankalisai.#[217]

The invocation to Night, which I will next quote, has its own beauty derived from the variety of images which are subtly and capriciously accumulated:

#hen tode pammêteira theôn litomai se philê Nyx nai litomai kômôn symplane potnia Nyx.#[218]

But Meleager's epithets for Love are, perhaps, the triumphs of his verbal coinage:

#esti d' ho pais glykydakrys aeilalos ôkys atarbês sima gelôn pteroeis nôta pharetrophoros.#[219]

Again he calls him #habropedilos erôs# (delicate-sandalled Love) and fashions words like #psychapatês#, #hypnapatês# (soul-cheating and sleep-cheating), to express the qualities of the treacherous god. In some of his metaphorical descriptions of passion he displays a really fervid imagination. To this class of creation belong the poem on the Soul's thirst (ii. 414), on the memory of beauty that lives like a fiery image in the heart (ii. 413), and the following splendid picture of the tyranny of Love. He is addressing his Soul, who has once again incautiously been trapped by Eros:

#ti matên eni desmois spaireis? autos erôs ta ptera sou dedeken, kai s' epi pyr estêse, myrois d' errane lipopnoun, dôke de dipsôsêi dakrya therma piein.#[220]

Surely a more successful marriage of romantic fancy to classic form was never effected even by a modern poet. This line again contains a bold and splendid metaphor:

#kômazô d' ouk oinon hypo phrena pyr de gemistheis.#[221]

Meleager had a soul that inclined to all beautiful and tender things. Having described the return of spring in a prolonged chant of joy, he winds up with words worthy of a troubadour on Minnesinger in the April of a new age:

#pôs ou chrê kai aoidon en eiari kalon aeisai?#[222]

The cicada, #droserais stagonessi methystheis# (drunken with honey-drops of dew), the #autophyes mimêma lyras# (nature's own mimic of the lyre)--a conceit, by the way, in the style of Marini or of Calderon--the bee whom he addresses as #anthodiaite melissa# (flower-pasturing bee), and all the flowers for which he has found exquisite epithets, the #philombros narkissos# (narcissus that loves the rain of heaven), the #philerasta rhoda# (roses to lovers dear), the #ouresiphoita krina# (lilies that roam the mountain-sides), and again #ta gelônta krina# (laughing lilies), testify to the passionate love and to the purity of heart with which he greeted and studied the simplest beauties of the world.[223] In dealing with flowers he is particularly felicitous. Most exquisite are the lines in which he describes his garland of the Greek poets and assigns to each some favorite of the garden or the field, and again those other couplets which compare the boys of Tyre to a bouquet culled by love for Aphrodite. #Baia men alla rhoda# (slight things perhaps, but roses): these are the words in which Meleager describes the too few but precious verses of Sappho, and for his own poetry they have a peculiar propriety. #Teai zôousin aêdones#, (thy nightingales still live) we may say, quoting Callimachus, when we take leave of him. His poetry has the sweetness and the splendor of the rose, the rapture and full-throated melody of the nightingale.

Next in artistic excellence to Meleager among the amatory poets is Straton, a Greek of Sardis, who lived in the second century. But there are few readers who, even for the sake of his pure and perfect language, will be prepared to put up with the immodesty of his subject-matter. Straton is not so delicate and subtle in style as Meleager; but he has a masculine vigor and _netteté_ of phrase peculiar to himself. It is not possible to quote many of his epigrams. He suffers the neglect which necessarily obscures those men of genius who misuse their powers. Yet the story of the garland-weaver (ii. 396), and the address to schoolmasters (ii. 219), are too clever to be passed by without notice. The following epigram on a picture of Ganymede gives a very fair notion of Straton's style (ii. 425):

#steiche pros aithera dion, apercheo paida komizôn aiete, tas diphyeis ekpetasas pterygas, steiche ton habron echôn Ganymêdea, mêde metheiês ton Dios hêdistôn oinochoon kylikôn; pheideo d' haimaxai kouron gampsônychi tarsôi mê Zeus algêsêi touto barynomenos.#[224]

To this may be added an exhortation to pleasure in despite of death (ii. 288).[225]

Callimachus deserves mention as a third with Meleager and Straton. His style, drier than that of Meleager, more elevated than Straton's, is marked by a frigidity of good scholarship which only at intervals warms into the fire of passionate poetry. In writing epigrams Callimachus was careful to preserve the pointed character of the composition. He did not merely, as is the frequent wont of Meleager, indite a short poem in elegiacs. This being the case, his love poems, though they are many, are not equal to his epitaphs.

To mention all the poets of the amatory chapters would be impossible. Their name is legion. Even Plato the divine, by right of this epigram to Aster:

#asteras eisathreis astêr emos; eithe genoimên ouranos hôs pollois ommasin eis se blepô--#[226]

and of this to Agathon:

#tên psychên Agathôna philôn epi cheilesin eschon; êlthe gar hê tlêmôn hôs diabêsomenê--#[227]

takes rank in the erotic cycle. Yet we may touch in passing on the names of Philodemus and Antipater, the former a native of Gadara, the latter a Sidonian, whose epitaph was composed by Meleager. Their poems help to complete the picture of Syrian luxury and culture in the cities of North Palestine, which we gain when reading Meleager. Of Philodemus the liveliest epigram is a dialogue, which seems to have come straight from the pages of some comedy (i. 68); but the majority of his verses belong to that class of literature which finds its illustration in the Gabinetto Segreto of the Neapolitan Museum. Occasionally he strikes a true note of poetry, as in this invocation to the moon:

#nykterinê dikerôs philopannyche phaine selênê, phaine di' eutrêtôn ballomenê thyridôn; augaze chryseên Kallistion; es ta phileuntôn erga katopteuein ou phthonos athanatêi. olbizeis kai tênde kai hêmeas oida selênê; kai gar sên psychên ephlegen Endymiôn.#[228]

Antipater shines less in his erotic poems than in the numerous epigrams which he composed on the earlier Greek poets, especially on Anacreon, Erinna, Sappho, Pindar, Ibycus. He lived at a period when the study of the lyrists was still flourishing, and each of his couplets contains a fine and thoughtful piece of descriptive criticism.

Another group of amatory poets must be mentioned. Agathias, Macedonius, and Paulus Silentiarius, Greeks of Byzantium about the age of Justinian, together with Rufinus, whose date is not quite certain, yield the very last fruits of the Greek genius, after it had been corrupted by the lusts of Rome and the effeminacy of the East. Very pale and hectic are the hues which give a sort of sickly beauty to their style. Their epigrams vary between querulous lamentations over old age and death and highly colored pictures of self-satisfied sensuality. Rufinus is a kind of second Straton in the firmness of his touch, the cynicism of his impudicity. The complaint of Agathias to the swallows that twittered at his window in early dawn (i. 102), his description of Rhodanthe and the vintage feast (ii. 297),[229] and those lines in which he has anticipated Jonson's lyric on the kiss which made the wine within the cup inebriating (i. 107), may be quoted as fair specimens of his style. Of Paulus Silentiarius I do not care to allude to more than the poem in which he describes the joy of two lovers (i. 106). What Ariosto and Boiardo have dwelt on in some of their most brilliant episodes, what Giorgione has painted in the eyes of the shepherd who envies the kiss given by Rachel to Jacob, is here compressed into eighteen lines of great literary beauty. But a man need be neither a prude nor a Puritan to turn with sadness and with loathing from these last autumnal blossoms on the tree of Greek beauty. The brothel and the grave are all that is left for Rufinus and his contemporaries. Over the one hangs the black shadow of death; the other is tenanted by ghosts of carnal joy:

When lust, By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, But most by lewd and lavish acts of sin, Lets in defilement to the inward parts, The soul grows clotted by contagion, Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose The divine property of her first being. Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres, Lingering, and sitting by a new-made grave, As loath to leave the body that it loved, And linked itself by carnal sensuality To a degenerate and degraded state.[230]

Before taking leave of the erotic poets of the Anthology, I shall here insert a few translations made by me from Meleager, Straton, and some anonymous poets. The first epigram illustrates the Greek custom of going at night, after drinking, with lighted torches to the house of the beloved person, and there suspending garlands on the door. It is not easy to find an equivalent for the characteristic Greek word #kômarein#. I have tried to deal with it by preserving the original allusion to the revel:

The die is cast! Nay, light the torch! I'll take the road! Up, courage, ho! Why linger pondering in the porch? Upon Love's revel we will go!

Shake off those fumes of wine! Hang care And caution! What has Love to do With prudence? Let the torches flare! Quick, drown the doubts that hampered you!

Cast weary wisdom to the wind! One thing, but one alone, I know: Love bent e'en Jove and made him blind! Upon Love's revel we will go!

The second, by Meleager, turns upon the same custom; but it is here treated with the originality of imagination distinctive of his style:

I've drunk sheer madness! Not with wine But old fantastic tales I'll arm My heart in heedlessness divine, And dare the road nor dream of harm!

I'll join Love's rout! Let thunder break, Let lightning blast me by the way! Invulnerable Love shall shake His ægis o'er my head to-day.

In a third, Meleager recommends hard drinking as a remedy for the pains of love:

Drink, luckless lover! Thy heart's fiery rage Bacchus who gives oblivion shall assuage: Drink deep, and while thou drain'st the brimming bowl, Drive love's dark anguish from thy fevered soul.

Two of these little compositions deal with the old comparison between love and the sea. In the first, the lover's journey is likened to a comfortless voyage, where the house of the beloved will be for him safe anchorage after the storm:

Cold blows the winter wind: 'tis Love, Whose sweet eyes swim with honeyed tears, That bears me to thy doors, my love, Tossed by the storm of hopes and fears.

Cold blows the blast of aching Love; But be thou for my wandering sail, Adrift upon these waves of love, Safe harbor from the whistling gale!

In the second, love itself is likened to the ocean, always shifting, never to be trusted:

My love is like an April storm Upon a false and fickle sea: One day you shine, and sunny warm Are those clear smiles you shower on me; Next day from cloudy brows you rain Your anger on the ruffled main.

Around me all the deeps are dark; I whirl and wander to and fro, Like one who vainly steers his bark Mid winds that battle as they blow:-- Then raise the flag of love or hate, That I at last may know my fate!

The peculiar distinction of Meleager's genius gives its special quality to the following dedication, in which the poet either is, or feigns himself to be, made captive by Love upon first landing in a strange country:

The Lady of desires, a goddess, gave My soul to thee; To thee soft-sandalled Love hath sent, a slave, Poor naked me: A stranger on a stranger's soil, tight-bound With bands of steel:-- I do but pray that we may once be found Firm friends and leal!

Yet thou dost spurn my prayers, refuse my love, Still stern and mute; Time will not melt thee, nor the deeds that prove How pure my suit.

Have pity, king, have pity! Fate hath willed Thee god and lord: Life in thy hands and death, to break or build, For me is stored!

The next specimen is an attempt to render into English stanzas one of Meleager's most passionate poems:

Did I not tell you so, and cry: "Rash soul, by Venus, you'll be caught! Ah, luckless soul, why will you fly So near the toils that Love had wrought?"

Did I not warn you? Now the net Has tangled you, and in the string You vainly strive, for Love hath set And bound your pinions, wing to wing;

And placed you on the flames to pine, And rubbed with myrrh your panting lip, And when you thirsted given you wine Of hot and bitter tears to sip.

Ah, weary soul, fordone with pain! Now in the fire you burn, and now Take respite for a while again, Draw better breath and cool your brow!

Why weep and wail? What time you first Sheltered wild Love within your breast, Did you not know the boy you nursed Would prove a false and cruel guest?

Did you not know? See, now he pays The guerdon of your fostering care With fire that on the spirit preys, Mixed with cold snow-flakes of despair!

You chose your lot. Then cease to weep: Endure this torment: tame your will: Remember, what you sowed, you reap: And, though it burns, 'tis honey still!

Here, lastly, is an Envoy, slightly altered in the English translation from Straton's original:

It may be in the years to come That men who love shall think of me, And reading o'er these verses see How love was my life's martyrdom.

Love-songs I write for him and her, Now this, now that, as Love dictates; One birthday gift alone the Fates Gave me, to be Love's scrivener.

One large section of the Anthology remains to be considered. It contains what are called the #epigrammata epideiktika#, or poems upon various subjects chosen for their propriety for rhetorical exposition. These epigrams, the favorites of modern imitators, display the Greek taste in this style of composition to the best advantage. The Greeks did not regard the epigram merely as a short poem with a sting in its tail--to quote the famous couplet:

Omne epigramma sit instar apis: sit aculeus illi: Sint sua mella: sit et corporis exigui.[231]

True to the derivation of the word, which means an inscription or superscription, they were satisfied if an epigram were short and gifted with the honey-dews of Helicon.[232] Meleager would have called his collection a beehive, and not a flower-garland, if he had acknowledged the justice of the Latin definition which has just been cited. The epigrams of which I am about to speak are simply little occasional poems, fugitive pieces, _Gelegenheitsgedichte_, varying in length from two to twenty lines, composed in elegiac metre, and determined, as to form and treatment, by the exigencies of the subject. Some of them, it is true, are noticeable for their point; but point is not the same as sting. The following panegyric of Athens, for example, approximates to the epigram as it is commonly conceived (ii. 13):

#gêi men ear kosmos polydendreos, aitheri d' astra, Helladi d' hêde chthôn, hoide de têi poleï.#[233]

The same may be said about the lines upon the vine and the goat (ii. 15; compare 20):

#kên me phagêis epi rhizan homôs eti karpophorêsô hosson epispeisai soi trage thyomenôi#:[234]

and the following satire, so well known by the parody of Porson (ii. 325):

#pantes men Kilikes kakoi aneres; en de Kilixin heis agathos Kinyrês, kai Kinyrês de Kilix.#[235]

Again the play of words in the last line of this next epigram (ii. 24) gives a sort of pungency to its conclusion:

#atthi kora melithrepte, lalos lalon harpaxasa tettiga ptanois daita phereis tekesin, ton lalon ha laloessa, ton eupteron ha pteroessa, ton xenon ha xeina, ton therinon therina? kouchi tachos rhipseis? ou gar themis oude dikaion ollysth' hymnopolous hymnopolois stomasin.#[236]

The Greek epigram has this, in fact, in common with all good poems, that the conclusion should be the strongest and most emphatic portion. But in liberty of subject and of treatment it corresponds to the Italian sonnet. Unquestionably of this kind is the famous poem of Ptolemy upon the stars (ii. 118), which recalls to mind the saying of Kant, that the two things which moved his awe were the stars of heaven above him and the moral law within the soul of man:

#oid' hoti thnatos egô kai ephameros; all' hotan astrôn masteuô pykinas amphidromous helikas, ouket' epipsauô gaiês posin, alla par' autôi Zêni theotrepheos pimplamai ambrosiês.#[237]

The poem on human life, which has been attributed severally to Poseidippus and to Plato Comicus, and which Bacon thought worthy of imitation, may take rank with the most elevated sonnets of modern literature (ii. 71):

#poiên tis biotoio tamêi tribon? ein agorêi men neikea kai chalepai prêxies; en de domois phrontides; en d' agrois kamatôn halis; en de thalassêi tarbos; epi xeinês d', ên men echêis ti, deos; ên d' aporêis, aniêron; echeis gamon? ouk amerimnos; esseai; ou gameeis? zêis et' erêmoteros; tekna ponoi, pêrôsis apais bios; hai neotêtes aphrones, hai poliai d' empalin adranees; ên ara toin dissoin henos hairesis, ê to genesthai mêdepot' ê to thanein autika tiktomenon.#[238]

The reverse of this picture is displayed with much felicity and geniality, but with less force, by Metrodorus (ii. 72):

#pantoiên biotoio tamois tribon; en agorêi men kydea kai pinytai prêxies; en de domois ampaum'; en d' agrois physios charis; en de thalassêi kerdos; epi xeinês, ên men echêis ti, kleos; ên d' aporêis monos oidas; echeis gamon? oikos aristos essetai; ou gameeis? zêis et' elaphroteros; tekna pothos, aphrontis apais bios; hai neotêtes rhômaleai, poliai d' empalin eusebees; ouk ara tôn dissôn henos hairesis, ê to genesthai mêdepot' ê to thanein; panta gar esthla biôi.#[239]

Some of the epigrams of this section are written in the true style of elegies. The following splendid threnody by Antipater of Sidon upon the ruins of Corinth, which was imitated by Agathias in his lines on Troy, may be cited as perfect in this style of composition (ii. 29):

#pou to periblepton kallos seo, Dôri Korinthe? pou stephanoi pyrgôn, pou ta palai kteana, pou nêoi makarôn, pou dômata, pou de damartes Sisyphiai, laôn th' hai pote myriades? oude gar oud' ichnos, polykammore, seio leleiptai, panta de symmarpsas exephagen polemos; mounai aporthêtoi Nêrêïdes, Ôkeanoio kourai, sôn acheôn mimnomen halkyones.#[240]

It is a grand picture of the queen of pleasure in her widowhood and desolation mourned over by the deathless daughters of the plunging sea. Occasionally the theme of the epigram is historical. The finest, perhaps, of this sort is a poem by Philippus on Leonidas (ii. 59):

#pouly Leônideô katidôn demas autodaïkton Xerxês echlainou phareï porphyreôi; kêk nekyôn d' êchêsen ho tas Spartas polys hêrôs; ou dechomai prodotais misthon opheilomenon; aspis emoi tymbou kosmos megas; aire ta Persôn chêxô keis aïdên hôs Lakedaimonios.#[241]

Few, however, of the epigrams rise to the altitude of those I have been lately quoting. Their subjects are for the most part simple incidents, or such as would admit of treatment within the space of an engraved gem. The story of the girls who played at dice upon the house-roof is told very prettily in the following lines (ii. 31):

#hai trissai pote paides en allêlaisin epaizon klêrôi, tis proterê bêsetai eis aïdên; kai tris men cheirôn ebalon kybon, êlthe de pasôn es mian; hê d' egela klêron opheilomenon; ek tegeos gar aelpton epeit' ôlisthe pesêma dysmoros, es d' aïdên êlythen, hôs elachen; apseudês ho klêros hotôi kakon; es de to lôion out' euchai thnêtois eustochoi oute cheres.#[242]

Not the least beautiful are those which describe natural objects. The following six lines are devoted to an oak-tree (ii. 14):

#klônes apêiorioi tanaês dryos, euskion hypsos andrasin akrêton kauma phylassomenois, eupetaloi, keramôn steganôteroi, oikia phattôn, oikia tettigôn, endioi akremones, kême ton hymeteraisin hypoklinthenta komaisin rhysasth', aktinôn hêeliou phygada.#[243]

Here again is a rustic retreat for lovers, beneath the spreading branches of a plane (ii. 43):

#ha chloera platanistos id' hôs ekrypse phileuntôn orgia, tan hieran phyllada teinomena; amphi d' ar' akremonessin heois kecharismenos hôrais hêmeridos larês botrys apokrematai; houtôs, ô plataniste, phyois; chloera d' apo seio phyllas aei keuthoi tous Paphiês oarous.#[244]

Of the same sort is this invitation (ii. 529):

#hypsikomon para tande kathizeo phônêessan phrissousan pykinois kônon hypo Zephyrois, kai soi kachlazousin emois para namasi syrinx thelgomenôn axei kôma kata blepharôn.#[245]

And this plea from the oak-tree to the woodman to be spared (ii. 63):

#ôner tan balanôn tan matera pheideo koptein, pheideo; gêralean d' ekkeraïze pityn, ê peukan, ê tande polystelechon paliouron, ê prinon, ê tan aualean komaron; têlothi d' ische dryos pelekyn; kokyai gar elexan hamin hôs proterai materes enti dryes.#[246]

Among the epigrams which seem to have been composed in the same spirit as those exquisite little _capricci_ engraved by Greek artists upon gems, few are more felicitous than the three following. The affection of the Greeks for the grasshopper is one of their most charming _naïvetés_. Everybody knows the pretty story Socrates tells about these #Mousôn prophêtai#, or Prophets of the Muses, in the _Phædrus_--how they once were mortals who took such delight in the songs of the Muses that, "Singing always, they never thought of eating and drinking, until at last they forgot and died: and now they live again in the grasshoppers, and this is the return the Muses make to them--they hunger no more, neither thirst any more, but are always singing from the moment that they are born, and never eating or drinking." Thus the grasshoppers were held sacred in Greece, like storks in Germany and robins in England. Most of the epigrams about them turn on this sanctity. The following is a plea for pity from an imprisoned grasshopper to the rustics who have caught him (ii. 76):

#tipte me ton philerêmon anaideï poimenes agrêi tettiga droserôn helket' ap' akremonôn, tên Nymphôn paroditin aêdona, kêmati messôi ouresi kai skierais xoutha laleunta napais? ênide kai kichlên kai kossyphon, ênide tossous psaras, arouraiês harpagas euporiês; karpôn dêlêtêras elein themis; ollyt' ekeinous; phyllôn kai chloerês tis phthonos esti drosou?#[247]

Another epigram on the same page tells how the poet found a grasshopper struggling in a spider's web and released it with these words: "Go safe and free with your sweet voice of song!" But the prettiest of all is this long story (ii. 119):

#Eunomon, ôpollon, sy men oistha me, pôs pot' enikôn Spartin ho Lokros egô; peuthomenois d' enepô. aiolon en kitharâi nomon ekrekon, en de meseusâi ôidâi moi chordan plaktron apekremasen; kai moi phthongon hetoimon hopanika kairos apêitei, eis akoas rhythmôn tôtrekes ouk enemen; kai tis ap' automatô kitharas epi pêchyn epiptas tettix eplêrou toullipes harmonias; neura gar hex etinasson; hoth' hebdomatas de meloiman chordas, tan toutô gêryn ekichrametha; pros gar eman meletan ho mesambrinos ouresin ôidos têno to poimenikon phthegma methêrmosato, kai men hote phthengoito, syn apsychois toka neurais tôi metaballomenôi summetepipte throôi; touneka symphônôi men echô charin; hos de typôtheis chalkeos hameteras hezeth' hyper kitharas.#[248]

So friendly were the relations of the Greeks with the grasshoppers. We do not wonder when we read that the Athenians wore golden grasshoppers in their hair.

Baths, groves, gardens, houses, temples, city-gates, and works of art furnish the later epigrammatists with congenial subjects. The Greeks of the Empire exercised much ingenuity in describing--whether in prose, like Philostratus, or in verse, like Agathias--the famous monuments of the maturity of Hellas. In this style the epigrams on statues are at once the most noticeable and the most abundant. The cow of Myron has at least two score of little sonnets to herself. The horses of Lysippus, the Zeus of Pheidias, the Rhamnusian statue of Nemesis, the Praxitelean Venus, various images of Eros, the Niobids, Marsyas, Ariadne, Herakles, Alexander, poets, physicians, orators, historians, and all the charioteers and athletes preserved in the museums of Byzantium or the groves of Altis, are described with a minuteness and a point that enable us to identify many of them with the surviving monuments of Greek sculpture. Pictures also come in for their due share of notice. A Polyxena of Polycletus, a Philoctetes of Parrhasius, and a Medea, which may have been the original of the famous Pompeian fresco, are specially remarkable. Then again cups engraved with figures in relief of Tantalus or Love, seals inscribed with Phoebus or Medusa, gems and intaglios of all kinds, furnish matter for other epigrams. The following couplet on the amethyst turns upon an untranslatable play of words (ii. 149):

#hê lithos est' amethystos, egô d' ho potês Dionysos; peisatô ê nêphein m', ê mathetô methyein.#

Amid this multitude of poems it is difficult to make a fair or representative selection. There are, however, four which I cannot well omit. The first is written by Poseidippus on a lost statue of Lysippus (ii. 584):

#tis pothen ho plastês? Sikyônios; ounoma dê tis? Lysippos. sy de tis? Kairos ho pandamatôr; tipte d' ep' akra bebêkas? aei trochaô. ti de tarsous possin echeis diphyeis? hiptam' hypênemios; cheiri de dexiterêi ti phereis xyron? andrasi deigma hôs akmês pasês oxyteros telethô. hê de komê ti kat' opsin? hypantiasanti labesthai. nê Dia taxopithen d' eis ti phalakra pelei? ton gar hapax ptênoisi parathrexanta me possin outis eth' himeirôn draxetai exopithen. tounech' ho technitês se dieplasen? heineken hymôn, xeine; kai en prothyrois thêke didaskaliên.#[249]

The second describes the statue of Nemesis erected near Marathon by Pheidias--that memorable work by which the greatest of sculptors recorded the most important crisis in the world's history (ii. 573):

#chioneên me lithon palinauxeos ek periôpês laotypos tmêxas petrotomois akisi Mêdos epontoporeusen, hopôs andreikela teuxêi, tês kat' Athênaiôn symbola kammoniês; hôs de daïzomenois Marathôn antektype Persais kai nees hygroporoun cheumasin haimaleois, exesan Adrêsteian aristôdines Athênai, daimon' hyperphialois antipalon meropôn; antitalanteuô tas elpidas; eimi de kai nyn Nikê Erechtheidais, Assyriois Nemesis.#[250]

The third celebrates the Aphrodite of Praxiteles in Cnidos, whose garden has been so elegantly described by Lucian (ii. 560):

#hê Paphiê Kythereia di' oidmatos es Knidon êlthe boulomenê katidein eikona tên idiên; pantê d' athrêsasa periskeptôi eni chôrôi, phthenxato: pou gymnên eide me Praxitelês?#[251]

The fourth is composed with much artifice of style upon a statue of Love bound by his arms to a pillar (ii. 567):

#klaie dysekphyktôs sphinchtheis cheras, akrite daimon, klaie mala, stazôn psychotakê dakrya, sôphrosynas hybrista, phrenoklope, lêista logismou, ptanon pyr, psychas traum' aoraton, Erôs; thnatois men lysis esti goôn ho sos, akrite, desmos; hôi sphinchtheis kôphois pempe litas anemois; hon de brotois aphylaktos enephleges en phresi pyrson athrei nyn hypo sôn sbennymenon dakryôn.#[252]

In bringing this review of the Anthology to a close, I feel that I have been guilty of two errors. I have wearied the reader with quotations; yet I have omitted countless epigrams of the purest beauty. The very riches of this flower-garden of little poems are an obstacle to its due appreciation. Each epigram in itself is perfect, and ought to be carefully and lovingly studied. But it is difficult for the critic to deal in a single essay with upwards of four thousand of these precious gems. There are many points of view which with adequate space and opportunity might have been taken for the better illustration of the epigrams. Their connection with the later literature of Greece, especially with the rhetoricians, Philostratus, Alciphron, and Libanius, many of whose best compositions are epigrams in prose--as Jonson knew when he turned them into lyrics; their still more intimate æsthetic harmony with the engraved stones and minor bass-reliefs, which bear exactly the same relation to Greek sculpture as the epigrams to the more august forms of Greek poetry; the lives of their authors; the historical events to which they not unfrequently allude--all these are topics for elaborate dissertation.

Perhaps, however, the true secret of their charm is this: that in their couplets, after listening to the choric raptures of triumphant public art, we turn aside to hear the private utterances, the harmoniously modulated whispers of a multitude of Greek poets telling us their inmost thoughts and feelings. The unique melodies of Meleager, the chaste and exquisite delicacy of Callimachus, the clear dry style of Straton, Plato's unearthly subtlety of phrase, Antipater's perfect polish, the good sense of Palladas, the fretful sweetness of Agathias, the purity of Simonides, the gravity of Poseidippus, the pointed grace of Philip, the few but mellow tones of Sappho and Erinna, the tenderness of Simmias, the biting wit of Lucillius, the sunny radiance of Theocritus--all these good things are ours in the Anthology. But beyond these perfumes of the poets known to fame is yet another. Over very many of the sweetest and the strongest of the epigrams is written the pathetic word #adespoton#--without a master. Hail to you, dead poets, unnamed, but dear to the Muses! Surely with Pindar and with Anacreon and with Sappho and with Sophocles the bed of flowers is spread for you in those "black-petalled hollows of Pieria" where Ion bade farewell to Euripides.

FOOTNOTES:

[163] He mutilated and, so to speak, castrated this book quite as much as he arranged its contents, by withdrawing the more lascivious epigrams according to his own boast.

[164] Paris, 1864-1872. The translations quoted by me are taken principally from the collections of Wellesley (_Anthologia Polyglotta_) and Burgess (Bohn's Series), and from the Miscellanies of the late J. A. Symonds, M.D. The versions contributed by myself have no signature.

[165] I have spoken of these compositions of Simonides as though they all belonged to the dedicatory epigrams. A large number of them are, however, incorporated among the epitaphs proper.

[166]

To those of Lacedæmon, stranger, tell, That, as their laws commanded, here we fell.

JOHN STERLING.

There is no very good translation of this couplet. The difficulty lies in the word #rhêmasi#. Is this equivalent to #rhêtrais#, as Cicero, who renders it by _legibus_, seems to think? Or is it the same as _orders_?

[167]

What time the Greeks with might and warlike deed, Sustained by courage in their hour of need, Drove forth the Persians, they to Zeus that frees This altar built, the free fair pride of Greece.

[168]

They told me, Heracleitus, they told me you were dead; They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept, as I remembered how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake, For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.

[169]

Would that swift ships had never been; for so We ne'er had wept for Sopolis: but he Dead on the waves now drifts; while we must go Past a void tomb, a mere name's mockery.

[170]

Here lapped in hallowed slumber Saon lies, Asleep, not dead; a good man never dies.

J. A. SYMONDS, M.D.

[171]

Thou wert the morning star among the living, Ere thy fair light had fled; Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus giving New splendor to the dead.

SHELLEY.

[172]

We who once left the Ægean's deep-voiced shore, Lie 'neath Ecbatana's champaign, where we fell. Farewell Eretria, thou famed land of yore, And neighbor Athens, and loved sea, farewell.

[173]

Pillars of death, carved sirens, tearful urns, In whose sad keeping my poor dust is laid, To him, who near my tomb his footsteps turns, Stranger or Greek, bid hail; and say a maid Rests in her bloom below; her sire the name Of Baucis gave; her birth and lineage high; And say her bosom friend Erinna came And on this tomb engraved her elegy.

ELTON.

[174]

This is the dust of Timas, whom unwed Persephone locked in her darksome bed: For her the maids who were her fellows shore Their curls and to her tomb this tribute bore. Sleep, poor youth, sleep in peace, Relieved from love and mortal care;

[175]

Merciless heaven! why didst thou show me light For so few years and speedy in their flight? Was it to vex by my untimely death With tears and wailings her who gave me breath? Who bore me, and who reared me, and who wrought More for my youth with many a careful thought Than my dead sire: he left me in his hall An orphan babe: 'twas she alone did all. My joy it was beneath grave men of laws, Just pleas to urge and win approved applause; But from my cheek she never plucked the flower Of charming youth, nor dressed my bridal bower, Nor sang my marriage hymn, nor saw, ah me! My offspring shoot upon our ancient tree, That now is withered. Even in the tomb I wail Politta's woe, the gloom on gloom That swells her grief for Phronton; since a boy In vain she bore, his country's empty joy.

[176]

Thou art not dead, my Prote! thou art flown To a far country better than our own; Thy home is now an island of the blest; There 'mid Elysian meadows take thy rest: Or lightly trip along the flowery glade, Rich with the asphodels that never fade! Nor pain, nor cold, nor toil shall vex thee more, Nor thirst, nor hunger on that happy shore; Nor longings vain (now that blest life is won) For such poor days as mortals here drag on; To thee for aye a blameless life is given In the pure light of ever-present Heaven.

J. A. SYMONDS, M.D.

[177]

Home to their stalls at eve the oxen came Down from the mountain through the snow-wreaths deep; But ah! Therimachus sleeps the long sleep 'Neath yonder oak, lulled by the levin-flame.

[178]

She who was once but in her flesh a slave Hath for her flesh found freedom in the grave.

[179]

Hades is stern; but when you died, he said, Smiling, "Be jester still among the dead."

[180]

Know well that thou art mortal: therefore raise Thy spirit high with long luxurious days. When thou art dead, thou hast no pleasure then. I too am earth, who was a king of men O'er Nineveh. My banquets and my lust And love-delights are mine e'en in the dust; But all those great and glorious things are flown. True doctrine for man's life is this alone.

[181]

When homeward cowering from the fight you ran Without or sword or shield, a naked man, Your mother then, Demetrius, through your side Plunged her blood-drinking spear, nor wept, but cried: Die; let not Sparta bear the blame; but she Sinned not, if cowards drew their life from me!

[182]

Travelling to Ephyre, by the road-side The tomb and name of Lais I espied: I wept and said: "Hail, queen, the fame of thee, Though ne'er I saw thee, draws these tears from me; How many hearts for thee were broken, how By Lethe lustreless thou liest now!"

[183]

My name, my country--what are they to thee? What, whether base or proud my pedigree? Perhaps I far surpassed all other men; Perhaps I fell below them all; what then? Suffice it, stranger! that thou seest a tomb; Thou know'st its use; it hides--no matter whom.

W. COWPER.

[184]

Orpheus! No more the rocks, the woods no more, Thy strains shall lure; no more the savage herds, Nor hail, nor driving clouds, nor tempest's roar, Nor chafing billows list thy lulling words; For thou art dead: and all the Muses mourn, But most Calliope, thy mother dear. Shall we then, reft of sons, lament forlorn, When e'en the gods must for their offspring fear?

J. A. SYMONDS, M.D.

[185]

Wind, gentle evergreen, to form a shade, Around the tomb where Sophocles is laid; Sweet ivy, wind thy boughs, and intertwine With blushing roses and the clustering vine: Thus will thy lasting leaves, with beauties hung, Prove grateful emblems of the lays he sung; Whose soul, exalted like a god of wit, Among the muses and the graces writ.--_Anon._

[186]

Hail, dear Euripides, for whom a bed In black-leaved vales Pierian is spread: Dead though thou art, yet know thy fame shall be, Like Homer's, green through all eternity.

[187]

If it be true that in the grave the dead Have sense and knowledge, as some men assert, I'd hang myself to see Euripides.

[188]

Around the tomb, O bard divine! Where soft thy hallowed brow reposes, Long may the deathless ivy twine, And summer pour his waste of roses!

And many a fount shall there distil, And many a rill refresh the flowers; But wine shall gush in every rill, And every fount yield milky showers.

Thus, shade of him whom nature taught To tune his lyre and soul to pleasure, Who gave to love his warmest thought, Who gave to love his fondest measure;

Thus, after death, if spirits feel, Thou mayest, from odors round thee streaming, A pulse of past enjoyment steal, And live again in blissful dreaming.

T. MOORE.

[189]

Stranger, beware! This grave hurls words like hail: Here dwells the dread Hipponax, dealing bale. E'en 'mid his ashes, fretful, poisonous, He shoots iambics at slain Bupalus. Wake not the sleeping wasp: for though he's dead, Still straight and sure his crooked lines are sped.

[190]

Here sleeps Archilochus by the salt sea; Who first with viper's gall the muse did stain, And bathed mild Helicon with butchery. Lycambes weeping for her daughters three Learned this. Pass then in silence: be not fain To stir the wasps that round his grave remain.

[191]

Tell me, good dog, whose tomb you guard so well? The Cynic's. True: but who that Cynic, tell. Diogenes, of fair Sinope's race. What! He that in a tub was wont to dwell? Yes: but the stars are now his dwelling-place.

J. A. SYMONDS, M.D.

[192]

These are Erinna's songs: how sweet, though slight!-- For she was but a girl of nineteen years:-- Yet stronger far than what most men can write: Had Death delayed, whose fame had equalled hers?

[193]

Does Sappho then beneath thy bosom rest, Æolian earth? that mortal Muse confessed Inferior only to the choir above, That foster-child of Venus and of Love; Warm from whose lips divine Persuasion came, Greece to delight, and raise the Lesbian name? O ye, who ever twine the threefold thread, Ye Fates, why number with the silent dead That mighty songstress, whose unrivalled powers Weave for the Muse a crown of deathless flowers?

FRANCIS HODGSON.

[194]

Piera's clarion, he whose weighty brain Forged many a hallowed hymn and holy strain, Pindar, here sleeps beneath the sacred earth: Hearing his songs a man might swear the brood Of Muses made them in their hour of mirth, What time round Cadmus' marriage-bed they stood.

[195]

As the war-trumpet drowns the rustic flute, So when your lyre is heard all strings are mute: Not vain the labor of those clustering bees Who on your infant lips spread honey-dew; Witness great Pan who hymned your melodies, Pindar, forgetful of his pipes for you.

[196]

Earth in her breast hides Plato's dust: his soul The gods forever 'mid their ranks enroll.

And--

Eagle! why soarest thou above the tomb? To what sublime and starry-paven home Floatest thou?

I am the image of swift Plato's spirit, Ascending heaven: Athens does inherit His corpse below.

SHELLEY.

[197]

Straight is the way to Acheron, Whether the spirit's race is run From Athens or from Meroë: Weep not, far off from home to die; The wind doth blow in every sky, That wafts us to that doleful sea.

J. A. SYMONDS, M.D.

[198]

God, grant us good, whether or not we pray; But e'en from praying souls keep bad away.

[199]

Your goods enjoy, as if about to die; As if about to live, use sparingly. That man is wise, who, bearing both in mind, A mean, befitting waste and thrift, can find.

BURGESS.

[200]

Why shrink from Death, the parent of repose, The cure of sickness and all human woes? As through the tribes of men he speeds his way, Once, and but once, his visit he will pay; Whilst pale diseases, harbingers of pain, Close on each other crowd--an endless train.

W. SHEPHERD.

[201]

All life's a scene, a jest: then learn to play, Dismissing cares, or bear your pains alway.

[202]

This wretched life of ours is Fortune's ball; 'Twixt wealth and poverty she bandies all: These, cast to earth, up to the skies rebound; These, tossed to heaven, come trembling to the ground.

GOLDWIN SMITH.

[203]

Oh for the joy of life that disappears!-- Weep then the swiftness of the flying years: We sit upon the ground and sleep away, Toiling or feasting; but time runs for aye, Runs a fell race against poor wretched man, Bringing for each the day that ends his span.

[204]

Tears were my birthright; born in tears, In tears too must I die; And mine has been, through life's long years, A tearful destiny.

Such is the state of man; from birth To death all comfortless: Then swept away beneath the earth In utter nothingness.

EDWARD STOKES.

[205]

My sire begat me; 'twas no fault of mine: But being born, in Hades I must pine: O birth-act that brought death! O bitter fate That drives me to the grave disconsolate! To naught I turn, who nothing was ere birth; For men are naught and less than nothing worth. Then let the goblet gleam for me, my friend; Pour forth care-soothing wine, ere pleasures end.

[206] See Fitzgerald's faultless translation of the _Rubáiyát_ of Omar Khayyám, published by Quaritch.

[207]

Morn follows morn; till while we careless play Comes suddenly the darksome king, whose breath Or wastes or burns or blows our life away, But drives us all down to one pit of death.

[208]

Thou sleepest, friend: but see, the beakers call! Awake, nor dote on death that waits for all. Spare not, my Diodorus, but drink free Till Bacchus loose each weak and faltering knee. Long will the years be when we can't carouse-- Long, long: up then ere age hath touched our brows.

[209]

Drink and be merry. What the morrow brings No mortal knoweth: wherefore toil or run? Spend while thou mayst, eat, fix on present things Thy hopes and wishes: life and death are one. One moment: grasp life's goods; to thee they fall: Dead, thou hast nothing, and another all.

GOLDWIN SMITH.

[210] The country that gave birth to me is Gadara, an Attic city on Assyrian shores.

[211] Who grew to man's estate in Tyre and Gadara, and found a fair old age in Cos. If then thou art a Syrian, Salaam! if a Phoenician, Naidios! if a Hellene, Hail!

[212]

I'll twine white violets, and the myrtle green; Narcissus will I twine, and lilies sheen; I'll twine sweet crocus, and the hyacinth blue; And last I twine the rose, love's token true: That all may form a wreath of beauty meet To deck my Heliodora's tresses sweet.

GOLDWIN SMITH.

[213]

Poor Cleariste loosed her virgin zone Not for her wedding, but for Acheron; 'Twas but last eve the merry pipes were swelling, And dancing footsteps thrilled the festive dwelling; Morn changed those notes for wailings loud and long, And dirges drowned the hymeneal song; Alas! the very torches meant to wave Around her bridal couch, now light her to the grave!

J. A. SYMONDS, M.D.

[214]

Fair blows the breeze: the seamen loose the sail:-- O men that know not love, your favoring gale Steals half my soul, Andragathos, from me! Thrice lucky ships, and billows of the sea Thrice blessed, and happiest breeze that bears the boy! Oh would I were a dolphin, that my joy, Here on my shoulders ferried, might behold Rhodes, the fair island thronged with boys of gold!

[215] "O soul too loving, cease at length from even in dreams thus idly basking in the warmth of Beauty's empty shapes."

[216] "Pour forth; and again cry, again, and yet again, 'to Heliodora!'"

[217] "I pray thee, Earth, all-nourishing, in thy deep breast, O mother, to enfold her tenderly, for whom my tears must flow for aye."

[218] "This one boon I ask of thee, great mother of all gods, beloved Night! Nay, I beseech thee, thou fellow wanderer with Revelry, O holy Night!"

[219] "The boy is honey-teared, tireless of speech, swift, without sense of fear, with laughter on his roguish lips, winged, bearing arrows in a quiver on his shoulders."

[220] "Why vainly in thy bonds thus pant and fret? Love himself bound thy wings and set thee on a fire, and rubbed thee, when thy breath grew faint with myrrh, and when thou thirstedst gave thee burning tears to drink."

[221] "A reveller I go freighted with fire not wine beneath the region of my heart."

[222] "How could it be that poet also should not sing fair songs in spring?"

[223] Those who on the shores of the Mediterranean have traced out beds of red tulips or anemones or narcissus from terrace to terrace, over rocks and under olive-branches, know how delicately true to nature is the thought contained in the one epithet #ouresiphoita#--roaming like nymphs along the hills, now single and now gathered into companies, as though their own sweet will had led them wandering.

[224]

Soar upward to the air divine: Spread broad thy pinions aquiline: Carry amid thy plumage him Who fills Jove's beaker to the brim: Take care that neither crookèd claw Make the boy's thigh or bosom raw; For Jove will wish thee sorry speed If thou molest his Ganymede.

[225]

Drink now, and love, Democrates; for we Shall not have wine and boys eternally: Wreathe we our heads, anoint ourselves with myrrh, Others will do this to our sepulchre: Let now my living bones with wine be drenched; Water may deluge them when I am quenched.

[226]

Gazing at stars, my star? I would that I were the welkin, Starry with infinite eyes, gazing forever at thee!

FREDERICK FARRAR.

[227]

Kissing Helena, together With my kiss, my soul beside it Came to my lips, and there I kept it-- For the poor thing had wandered thither, To follow where the kiss should guide it, Oh cruel I to intercept it!

SHELLEY.

[228]

Shine forth, night-wandering, horned, and vigilant queen, Through the shy lattice shoot thy silver sheen; Illume Callistion: for a goddess may Gaze on a pair of lovers while they play. Thou enviest her and me, I know, fair moon, For thou didst once burn for Endymion.

[229]

We trod the brimming wine-press ankle-high, Singing wild songs of Bacchic revelry: Forth flowed the must in rills; our cups of wood Like cockboats swam upon the honeyed flood: With these we drew, and as we filled them, quaffed, With no warm Naiad to allay the draught: But fair Rhodanthe bent above the press, And the fount sparkled with her loveliness: We in our souls were shaken; yea, each man Quaked beneath Bacchus and the Paphian. Ah me! the one flowed at our feet in streams-- The other fooled us with mere empty dreams!

[230] _Comus_, 463, etc.

[231]

Three things must epigrams, like bees, have all; A sting and honey and a body small.

RILEY.

[232] A certain Cyril gives this as his definition of a good epigram (ii. 75; compare No. 342 on p. 69):

#pankalon est' epigramma to distichon; ên de parelthêis tous treis, rhapsôideis kouk epigramma legeis.#

Two lines complete the epigram--or three: Write more; you aim at epic poetry.

Here the essence of this kind of poetry is said to be brevity. But nothing is said about a sting. And on the point of brevity, the Cyril to whom this couplet is attributed is far too stringent when judged by the best Greek standards. The modern notion of the epigram is derived from a study of Martial, whose best verses are satirical and therefore of necessity stinging.

[233]

Spring with her waving trees Adorns the earth: to heaven The pride of stars is given: Athens illustrates Greece: She on her brows doth set Of men this coronet.

[234]

Though thou shouldst gnaw me to the root, Destructive goat, enough of fruit I bear, betwixt my horns to shed, When to the altar thou art led.

MERIVALE.

[235]

The Germans at Greek Are sadly to seek, Not five in five-score, But ninety-five more; All--save only Hermann; And Hermann's a German.

PORSON.

[236]

Attic maid! with honey fed, Bear'st thou to thy callow brood Yonder locust from the mead, Destined their delicious food?

Ye have kindred voices clear, Ye alike unfold the wing, Migrate hither, sojourn here, Both attendant on the spring.

Ah! for pity drop the prize; Let it not with truth be said, That a songster gasps and dies, That a songster may be fed.

W. COWPER.

[237]

Though but the being of a day, When I yon planet's course survey, This earth I then despise; Near Jove's eternal throne I stand, And quaff from an immortal hand The nectar of the skies.

PHILIP SMYTH.

[238] Bacon's version, "The world's a bubble, and the life of man--," is both well known and too long to quote. The following is from the pen of Sir John Beaumont:

What course of life should wretched mortals take? In courts hard questions large contention make: Care dwells in houses, labor in the field, Tumultuous seas affrighting dangers yield. In foreign lands thou never canst be blessed; If rich, thou art in fear; if poor, distressed. In wedlock frequent discontentments swell; Unmarried persons as in deserts dwell. How many troubles are with children born; Yet he that wants them counts himself forlorn. Young men are wanton, and of wisdom void; Gray hairs are cold, unfit to be employed. Who would not one of these two offers choose, Not to be born, or breath with speed to lose?

[239]

In every way of life true pleasure flows: Immortal fame from public action grows: Within the doors is found appeasing rest; In fields the gifts of nature are expressed. The sea brings gain, the rich abroad provide To blaze their names, the poor their wants to hide: All household's best are governed by a wife; His cares are light, who leads a single life: Sweet children are delights which marriage bless; He that hath none disturbs his thoughts the less. Strong youth can triumph in victorious deeds; Old age the soul with pious motions feeds. All states are good, and they are falsely led Who wish to be unborn or quickly dead.

SIR JOHN BEAUMONT.

[240]

Where, Corinth, are thy glories now, Thy ancient wealth, thy castled brow, Thy solemn fanes, thy halls of state, Thy high-born dames, thy crowded gate? There's not a ruin left to tell Where Corinth stood, how Corinth fell. The Nereids of thy double sea Alone remain to wail for thee.

GOLDWIN SMITH.

[241]

Seeing the martyred corpse of Sparta's king Cast 'mid the dead, Xerxes around the mighty limbs did fling His mantle red. Then from the shades the glorious hero cried: "Not mine a traitor's guerdon. 'Tis my pride This shield upon my grave to wear. Forbear Your Persian gifts; a Spartan I will go To Death below."

[242]

One day three girls were casting lots in play, Which first to Acheron should take her way; Thrice with their sportive hands they threw, and thrice To the same hand returned the fateful dice; The maiden laughed when thus her doom was told: Alas! that moment from the roof she rolled! So sure is Fate whene'er it bringeth bale, While prayers and vows for bliss must ever fail.

J. A. SYMONDS. M.D.

[243]

Aerial branches of tall oak, retreat Of loftiest shade for those who shun the heat, With foliage full, more close than tiling, where Dove and cicada dwell aloft in air, Me, too, that thus my head beneath you lay, Protect, a fugitive from noon's fierce ray.

GOLDWIN SMITH.

[244]

Wide-spreading plane-tree, whose thick branches meet To form for lovers an obscure retreat, Whilst with thy foliage closely intertwine The curling tendrils of the clustered vine, Still mayst thou flourish, in perennial green, To shade the votaries of the Paphian queen.

W. SHEPHERD.

[245]

Come sit you down beneath this towering tree, Whose rustling leaves sing to the zephyr's call; My pipe shall join the streamlet's melody, And slumber on your charmèd eyelids fall.

J. A. SYMONDS, M.D.

[246]

Spare the parent of acorns, good wood-cutter, spare! Let the time-honored fir feel the weight of your stroke, The many-stalked thorn, or acanthus worn bare, Pine, arbutus, ilex--but touch not the oak! Far hence be your axe, for our grandams have sung How the oaks are the mothers from whom we all sprung.

MERIVALE.

[247]

Why, ruthless shepherds, from my dewy spray In my lone haunt, why tear me thus away? Me, the Nymphs' wayside minstrel, whose sweet note O'er sultry hill is heard and shady grove to float? Lo! where the blackbird, thrush, and greedy host Of starlings fatten at the farmer's cost! With just revenge those ravages pursue; But grudge not my poor leaf and sip of grassy dew.

WRANGHAM.

[248]

Phoebus, thou know'st me--Eunomus, who beat Spartis: the tale for others I repeat; Deftly upon my lyre I played and sang, When 'mid the song a broken harp-string rang, And seeking for its sound, I could not hear The note responsive to my descant clear. Then on my lyre, unasked, unsought, there flew A grasshopper, who filled the cadence due; For while six chords beneath my fingers cried, He with his tuneful voice the seventh supplied: The midday songster of the mountains set His pastoral ditty to my canzonet; And when he sang, his modulated throat Accorded with the lifeless strings I smote. Therefore I thank my fellow-minstrel: he Sits on a lyre in brass, as you may see.

[249]

The sculptor's country? Sicyon. His name? Lysippus. You? Time, that all things can tame. Why thus a-tiptoe? I have halted never. Why ankle-winged? I fly like wind forever. But in your hand that razor? 'Tis a pledge That I am keener than the keenest edge. Why falls your hair in front? For him to bind Who meets me. True: but then you're bald behind? Yes, because when with winged feet I have passed 'Tis vain upon my back your hands to cast. Why did the sculptor carve you? For your sake Here in the porch I stand; my lesson take.

[250]

My snowy marble from the mountain rude A Median sculptor with sharp chisel hewed, And brought me o'er the sea, that he might place A trophied statue of the Greeks' disgrace. But when the routed Persians heard the roar Of Marathon, and ships swam deep in gore, Then Athens, nurse of heroes, sculptured me The queen that treads on arrogance to be: I hold the scales of hope: my name is this-- Nike for Greece, for Asia Nemesis.

[251]

Bright Cytherea thought one day To Cnidos she'd repair, Gliding across the watery way To view her image there. But when, arrived, she cast around Her eyes divinely bright, And saw upon that holy ground The gazing world's delight, Amazed, she cried--while blushes told The thoughts that swelled her breast-- Where did Praxiteles behold My form? or has he guessed?

J. H. MERIVALE.

[252]

Weep, reckless god; for now your hands are tied: Weep, wear your soul out with the flood of tears, Heart-robber, thief of reason, foe to pride, Winged fire, thou wound unseen the soul that sears! Freedom from grief to us these bonds of thine, Wherein thou wailest to the deaf winds, bring: Behold! the torch wherewith thou mad'st us pine, Beneath thy frequent tears is languishing!