Part 1

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THE ODES OF ANACREON.

'Nec, si quid olim lusit Anacreon Delevit ætas.' _Hor._

THE ODES OF ANACREON.

TRANSLATED BY THOMAS MOORE.

WITH FIFTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIVE DESIGNS BY GIRODET DE ROUSSY.

_NOW FIRST PRODUCED IN ENGLAND._

LONDON: JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, PICCADILLY.

LONDON: STRANGEWAYS AND WALDEN, PRINTERS, Castle St. Leicester Sq.

INTRODUCTION TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.

Amongst the innumerable translators of Anacreon, there was one--a Frenchman by birth--who was both an illustrious painter and a literary enthusiast. Girodet de Roussy, inspired by a genius altogether Greek in its character, has translated Anacreon better by his pencil than he could have been translated by words. One might fancy that his designs had been executed under Anacreon's own eye by some Greek artist, who had himself witnessed that soft and voluptuous existence, where song and pleasure are one.

Seldom indeed have chasteness of execution and voluptuousness of character been so curiously and indissolubly blended. Seldom has a modern artist so happily caught the spirit of an ancient poet. We seem to be transported, as in a dream, to the vines, and orange-groves, and cloudless skies of Greece, and the wearied spirit abandons itself for a while to the soft influences of the azure heaven, the countless luxuriance of roses, the undulating forms of the fair girls dancing in the shade, while youthful attendants brim the beaker with wine. Under such influences we remember that youth, and love, and mirth are immortal, and we say with Horace,--

'Nec, si quid olim lusit Anacreon Delevit ætas.'[1]

In that close wrestle of the genius that imitates with the genius that creates, Girodet alone came out from the trial successfully. He has shown himself the rival of Anacreon in grace, in _abandon_, in _naïveté_. He has succeeded in depicting his poet's theme with equal elegance and delicacy. Loving with a real love those old Greek songs, he has displayed them in living beauty before our eyes in fifty-four exquisite drawings. To attempt such a masterpiece required a poet's as well as a painter's skill; and Girodet was both a painter and a poet.

In examining these compositions, one cannot abstain from a certain kind of surprise: all the odes of Anacreon revolve upon two or three central ideas, expressed in a manner full of grace, unquestionably, but still always the same ideas. The artist, while not deviating from the narrow circle traced for him by the poet, shows a fecundity and variety that are truly marvellous--that astonish and enchant us at the same time. The nobility, elegance, and wealth of accessories that prevail throughout the whole series might, as we have already hinted, lead us to suppose that we owed them to one of the famous artists that Greece produced: the painter and the poet seem to have been born under one heaven, and informed with one soul.

The manners of the time in which Anacreon lived permitted him to say many things which, in their crudity, might offend our modern taste. Girodet is not less voluptuous than Anacreon; but he always maintains that grace and delicacy which add so great a charm to the voluptuous: nowhere in his animated panorama is sight or sense shocked.

These designs originally accompanied a translation of the Odes of Anacreon, made by the painter himself and published shortly after his death. Some small photographs of them on a greatly reduced scale appeared in 1864, in an exquisite little edition of the original Greek, from the press of Firmin Didot, at the almost prohibitive price of Two Pounds. The present reproductions are on a scale more proportionate with the originals, and constitute the first appearance of Girodet's designs in England, where, we feel assured, they will be appreciated as they deserve by all true lovers of classical art.

The English verse-translation of Moore has been chosen to accompany them, because, though it has often been objected to by the learned for its imperfect scholarship, it seemed to us to be most in harmony with the real spirit of the great French painter, and of the old Greek poet himself.

_Oct. 25, 1869._

FOOTNOTES:

[1] 'Time cannot raze Anacreon's name, Nor prey upon his youthful strains.'

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

_FRONTISPIECE_--THE APOTHEOSIS OF ANACREON.

PAGE

THE LYRE OF ANACREON 15

NATURE'S GIFT TO WOMAN 19

CUPID BELATED 23

ANACREON TENDING CUPID 27

CUPID TRIES HIS BOW 31

LOVE AND WINE 35

THE ROSE 39

THE GENIUS OF FESTIVITY 43

A RACE WITH CUPID 47

ANACREON'S DREAM 51

THE DOVE 55

THE GIFT OF VENUS 59

THE DOVE TENDED BY ANACREON 63

THE IMAGE OF CUPID 67

AGE AND PLEASURE 71

THE CONFLICT WITH LOVE 75

THE SURRENDER 79

THE WREATH OF ROSES 83

THE VICTORY OF THE EYE 87

THE CUP 91

CUPID DISARMED 95

THE MIRROR 99

THE CHAPLET OF FLOWERS 103

THE TRUE WEALTH 107

THE POWER OF WINE 111

SONG AND DANCE 115

THE PORTRAIT 119

BATHYLLUS 123

THE RANSOM OF CUPID 127

THE FAIR FUGITIVE 131

THE LILY AND THE ROSE 135

EUROPA AND THE BULL 139

ANACREON DEFYING THE PHILOSOPHER 143

THE GRACES AND SPRING 147

THE SUMMONS TO FESTIVITY 151

THE BOWL OF WINE 155

VOWS TO VENUS 159

CUPID STUNG 163

THE DANCE OF MIRTH 167

THE FRONTLET OF HYACINTH 171

CAUGHT BY LOVE 175

THE LEMNIAN CAVE 179

THE EVERGREEN HEART 183

THE BLUSHING YEAR 187

THE QUEEN OF LOVE 191

THE ROSE 195

YOUTH AND DANCE 199

THE LOVER'S EYES 203

SPRING 207

VISION OF THE TEIAN BARD 211

THE HARP 215

BACCHANTS 219

CUPID IN THE GOBLET 223

_ODE I._

I often wish this languid lyre, This warbler of my soul's desire, Could raise the breath of song sublime, To men of fame in former time. But when the soaring theme I try, Along the chords my numbers die, And whisper, with dissolving tone, 'Our sighs are given to love alone!' Indignant at the feeble lay, I tore the panting chords away, Attuned them to a nobler swell, And struck again the breathing shell;

In all the glow of epic fire, To Hercules I wake the lyre! But still its fainting sighs repeat, 'The tale of love alone is sweet!' Then fare thee well, seductive dream, That madest me follow Glory's theme; For thou my lyre, and thou my heart, Shall never more in spirit part; And thou the flame shalt feel as well As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell.

_ODE II._

To all that breathe the airs of heaven, Some boon of strength has Nature given. When the majestic bull was born, She fenced his brow with wreathèd horn. She arm'd the courser's foot of air, And wing'd with speed the panting hare. She gave the lion fangs of terror, And, on the ocean's crystal mirror, Taught the unnumber'd scaly throng To trace their liquid path along; While for the umbrage of the grove,

She plumed the warbling bird of love. To man she gave the flame refined, The spark of heaven--a thinking mind! And had she no surpassing treasure, For thee, oh woman! child of pleasure? She gave thee beauty--shaft of eyes, That every shaft of war outflies! She gave thee beauty--blush of fire, That bids the flames of war retire! Woman! be fair, we must adore thee; Smile, and a world is weak before thee!

_ODE III._

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole The sullen Bear is seen to roll; And mortals, wearied with the day, Are slumbering all their cares away; An infant, at that dreary hour, Came weeping to my silent bower, And waked me with a piteous prayer, To save him from the midnight air! 'And who art thou,' I waking cry, 'That bidd'st my blissful visions fly?' 'O gentle sire!' the infant said, 'In pity take me to thy shed; Nor fear deceit: a lonely child I wander o'er the gloomy wild.

Chill drops the rain, and not a ray Illumes the drear and misty way!' I hear the baby's tale of woe; I hear the bitter night-winds blow; And sighing for his piteous fate, I trimm'd my lamp and oped the gate. 'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite, His pinion sparkled through the night! I knew him by his bow and dart; I knew him by my fluttering heart! I take him in, and fondly raise The dying embers' cheering blaze;

Press from his dank and clinging hair The crystals of the freezing air, And in my hand and bosom hold His little fingers thrilling cold. And now the embers' genial ray Had warm'd his anxious fears away: 'I pray thee,' said the wanton child, (My bosom trembled as he smiled,) 'I pray thee let me try my bow, For through the rain I've wander'd so, That much I fear the ceaseless shower Has injured its elastic power.' The fatal bow the urchin drew; Swift from the string the arrow flew;

Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame And to my very soul it came! 'Fare thee well,' I heard him say, As laughing wild he wing'd away: 'Fare thee well, for now I know The rain has not relax'd my bow; It still can send a maddening dart, As thou shalt own with all thy heart!'

_ODE IV._

Strew me a breathing bed of leaves, Where lotos with the myrtle weaves; And while in luxury's dream I sink, Let me the balm of Bacchus drink! In this delicious hour of joy, Young Love shall be my goblet-boy; Folding his little golden vest, With cinctures, round his snowy breast, Himself shall hover by my side, And minister the racy tide! Swift as the wheels that kindling roll, Our life is hurrying to the goal: A scanty dust, to feed the wind, Is all the trace 'twill leave behind. Why do we shed the rose's bloom Upon the cold insensate tomb? Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,

Affect the slumbering chill of death? No, no; I ask no balm to steep With fragrant tears my bed of sleep: But now, while every pulse is glowing, Now let me breathe the balsam flowing; Now let the rose, with blush of fire, Upon my brow its scent expire; And bring the nymph with floating eye,-- Oh! she will teach me how to die! Yes, Cupid! ere my soul retire, To join the blest elysian choir, With wine, and love, and blisses dear, I'll make my own elysium here!

_ODE V._

Buds of roses, virgin flowers, Cull'd from Cupid's balmy bowers, In the bowl of Bacchus steep, Till with crimson drops they weep! Twine the rose, the garland twine, Every leaf distilling wine; Drink and smile, and learn to think That we were born to smile and drink. Rose! thou art the sweetest flower That ever drank the amber shower; Rose! thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild! E'en the gods, who walk the sky, Are amorous of thy scented sigh. Cupid too, in Paphian shades, His hair with rosy fillet braids, When with the blushing naked Graces, The wanton winding dance he traces.

Then bring me showers of roses, bring, And shed them round me while I sing: Great Bacchus! in thy hallow'd shade, With some celestial, glowing maid, While gales of roses round me rise, In perfume, sweeten'd by her sighs, I'll bill and twine in airy dance, Commingling soul with every glance!

_ODE VI._

While our rosy fillets shed Blushes o'er each fervid head, With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile. And while the harp, impassion'd, flings Tuneful rapture from the strings, Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs, Through the dance luxuriant swims, Waving, in her snowy hand, The leafy Bacchanalian wand, Which, as the tripping wanton flies, Shakes its tresses to her sighs; A youth the while, with loosen'd hair, Floating on the listless air, Sings to the wild harp's tender tone,

A tale of woes, alas! his own; And then what nectar in his sigh, As o'er his lip the murmurs die! Surely never yet has been So divine, so blest a scene! Has Cupid left the starry sphere, To wave his golden tresses here? Oh yes! and Venus, queen of wiles, And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, All, all are here, to hail with me The genius of festivity!

_ODE VII._

Arm'd with hyacinthine rod, (Arms enough for such a god,) Cupid bade me wing my pace, And try with him the rapid race, O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep. By tangled brake and pendent steep, With weary foot I panting flew, My brow was chill with drops of dew. And now my soul, exhausted, dying,

To my lip was faintly flying; And now I thought the spark had fled, When Cupid hover'd o'er my head, And fanning light his breezy plume, Recall'd me from my languid gloom; Then said, in accents half-reproving, 'Why hast thou been a foe to loving?'

_ODE VIII._

'Twas night, and many a circling bowl Had deeply warmed my swimming soul; As lull'd in slumber I was laid, Bright visions o'er my fancy play'd! With virgins blooming as the dawn, I seem'd to trace the opening lawn; Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew, We flew, and sported as we flew! Some ruddy striplings, young and sleek, With blush of Bacchus on their cheek, Saw me trip the flowery wild With dimpled girls, and slily smiled; Smiled indeed with wanton glee, But, ah! 'twas plain they envied me.

And still I flew--and now I caught The panting nymphs, and fondly thought To kiss--when all my dream of joys, Dimpled girls and ruddy boys, All were gone! 'Alas!' I said, Sighing for the illusions fled, 'Sleep! again my joys restore, Oh! let me dream them o'er and o'er!'

_ODE IX._

Tell me, why, my sweetest dove, Thus your humid pinions move, Shedding through the air in showers Essence of the balmiest flowers? Tell me whither, whence you rove, Tell me all, my sweetest dove.-- Curious stranger! I belong To the bard of Teian song:

With his mandate now I fly To the nymph of azure eye; Ah! that eye has madden'd many, But the poet more than any! Venus, for a hymn of love, Warbled in her votive grove, ('Twas in sooth a gentle lay,) Gave me to the bard away. See me now his faithful minion, Thus with softly-gliding pinion, To his lovely girl I bear Songs of passion through the air. Oft he blandly whispers me, 'Soon, my bird, I'll set you free.' But in vain he'll bid me fly, I shall serve him till I die.

Never could my plumes sustain Ruffling winds and chilling rain, O'er the plains, or in the dell, On the mountain's savage swell; Seeking in the desert wood Gloomy shelter, rustic food. Now I lead a life of ease, Far from such retreats as these; From Anacreon's hand I eat Food delicious, viands sweet; Flutter o'er his goblet's brim, Sip the foamy wine with him. Then I dance and wanton round To the lyre's beguiling sound; Or with gently-fanning wings Shade the minstrel while he sings:

On his harp then sink in slumbers, Dreaming still of dulcet numbers! This is all--away--away-- You have made me waste the day. How I've chatter'd! prating crow Never yet did chatter so.

_ODE X._

'Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay thee For this little waxen toy, Image of the Paphian boy?' Thus I said the other day, To a youth who pass'd my way: 'Sir,' he answer'd, and the while Answer'd all in Doric style, 'Take it, for a trifle take it; Think not yet that I could make it; Pray, believe it was not I; No--it cost me many a sigh, And I can no longer keep Little gods, who murder sleep!

Here, then, here,' (I said with joy) 'Here is silver for the boy: He shall be my bosom guest, Idol of my pious breast!' Little Love! thou now art mine, Warm me with that torch of thine; Make me feel as I have felt, Or thy waxen frame shall melt. I must burn in warm desire, Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire!

_ODE XI._

The women tell me every day, That all my bloom has past away. 'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry, 'Behold this mirror with a sigh; The locks upon thy brow are few, And like the rest, they're withering too!' Whether decline has thinn'd my hair, I'm sure I neither know nor care; But this I know, and this I feel,

As onward to the tomb I steal, That still as death approaches nearer, The joys of life are sweeter, dearer; And had I but an hour to live, That little hour to bliss I'd give!

_ODE XII._

I will; I will; the conflict's past, And I'll consent to love at last. Cupid has long, with smiling art, Invited me to yield my heart; And I have thought that peace of mind Should not be for a smile resign'd; And I've repell'd the tender lure, And hoped my heart should sleep secure. But, slighted in his boasted charms, The angry infant flew to arms; He slung his quiver's golden frame, He took his bow, his shafts of flame, And proudly summon'd me to yield,

Or meet him on the martial field. And what did I unthinking do? I took to arms, undaunted too; Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear, And, like Pelides, smiled at fear. Then (hear it, all you powers above!) I fought with Love! I fought with Love! And now his arrows all were shed And I had just in terrors fled-- When heaving an indignant sigh To see me thus unwounded fly, And having now no other dart, He glanced himself into my heart! My heart--alas the luckless day! Received the god, and died away.

Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield! Thy lord at length is forced to yield. Vain, vain, is every outward care, My foe's within, and triumphs there.

_ODE XIII._

I care not for the idle state Of Persia's king, the rich, the great! I envy not the monarch's throne, Nor wish the treasured gold my own. But oh! be mine the rosy braid, The fervour of my brows to shade; Be mine the odours, richly sighing, Amidst my hoary tresses flying. To-day, I'll haste to quaff my wine, As if to-morrow ne'er should shine; But if to-morrow comes, why then-- I'll haste to quaff my wine again. And thus while all our days are bright, Nor time has dimm'd their bloomy light,

Let us the festal hours beguile With mantling cup and cordial smile; And shed from every bowl of wine The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine! For Death may come, with brow unpleasant, May come, when least we wish him present, And beckon to the sable shore, And grimly bid us drink no more!

_ODE XIV._

Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms, Or tell the tale of Theban arms; With other wars my song shall burn, For other wounds my harp shall mourn. 'Twas not the crested warrior's dart, Which drank the current of my heart; Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed, Have made this vanquish'd bosom bleed;

No--from an eye of liquid blue, A host of quiver'd cupids flew; And now my heart all bleeding lies Beneath this army of the eyes!

_ODE XV_.

Grave me a cup with brilliant grace, Deep as the rich and holy vase, Which on the shrine of Spring reposes, When shepherds hail that hour of roses. Grave it with themes of chaste design, Form'd for a heavenly bowl like mine. Display not there the barbarous rites, In which religious zeal delights;

Nor any tale of tragic fate, Which history trembles to relate! No--cull thy fancies from above, Themes of heaven and themes of love. Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy, Distil the grape in drops of joy, And while he smiles at every tear, Let warm-eyed Venus dancing near, With spirits of the genial bed, The dewy herbage deftly tread. Let Love be there, without his arms, In timid nakedness of charms;

And all the Graces link'd with Love, Blushing through the shadowy grove; While rosy boys disporting round, In circlets trip the velvet ground; But ah! if there Apollo toys, I tremble for my rosy boys!

_ODE XVI._

The Phrygian rock that braves the storm, Was once a weeping matron's form; And Progne, hapless, frantic maid, Is now a swallow in the shade. Oh! that a mirror's form were mine, To sparkle with that smile divine; And like my heart I then should be, Reflecting thee, and only thee! Or were I, love, the robe which flows O'er every charm that secret glows, In many a lucid fold to swim, And cling and grow to every limb! Oh! could I, as the streamlet's wave, Thy warmly-mellowing beauties lave, Or float as perfume on thine hair,

And breathe my soul in fragrance there! I wish I were the zone, that lies Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs! Or like those envious pearls that show So faintly round that neck of snow, Yes, I would be a happy gem, Like them to hang, to fade like them. What more would thy Anacreon be? Oh! anything that touches thee. Nay, sandals for those airy feet-- Thus to be press'd by thee were sweet!

_ODE XVII._

Now the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly, Bring me wine in brimming urns, Cool my lip, it burns, it burns! Sunn'd by the meridian fire, Panting, languid I expire! Give me all those humid flowers, Drop them o'er my brow in showers. Scarce a breathing chaplet now Lives upon my feverish brow;

Every dewy rose I wear Sheds its tears and withers there. But for you, my burning mind! Oh! what shelter shall I find? Can the bowl, or floweret's dew, Cool the flame that scorches you?

_ODE XVIII._

If hoarded gold possess'd a power To lengthen life's too fleeting hour, And purchase from the land of death A little span, a moment's breath, How I would love the precious ore! And every day should swell my store; That when the Fates would send their minion, To waft me off on shadowy pinion, I might some hours of life obtain, And bribe him back to hell again. But, since we ne'er can charm away The mandate of that awful day, Why do we vainly weep at fate, And sigh for life's uncertain date? The light of gold can ne'er illume The dreary midnight of the tomb! And why should I then pant for treasures?

Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures; The goblet rich, the board of friends, Whose flowing souls the goblet blends: Mine be the nymph, whose form reposes Seductive on that bed of roses; And oh! be mine the soul's excess, Expiring in her warm caress!

_ODE XIX._

When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep. Talk of monarchs! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men; Careless, o'er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king; Gives me wealthy Croesus' store, Can I, can I wish for more? On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining, While my soul dilates with glee, What are kings and crowns to me?