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E'en thus our hunters came of yore

Back from their vain and weary quest. Had they not seen th'untrodden shore,

And could they midst our wilds find rest? The lightning of their glance was fled, They dwelt amongst us as the dead!

They lay beside our glancing rills,

With visions in their darken'd eye; Their joy was not amidst the hills,

Where elk and deer before us fly; Their spears upon the cedar hung, Their javelins to the wind were flung.

They bent no more the forest bow,

They arm'd not with the warrior band,
The moons waned o'er them dim and slow-
They left us for the Spirits' land!
Beneath our pines yon greensward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.

Son of the Stranger! if at eve

Silence be midst us in thy place, Yet go not where the mighty leave

The strength of battle and of chase! Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile, Oh! seek thou not the Fountain Isle!

F. H. New Monthly Magazine.


THE reader will exercise his own judgment in determining the relative merits of the following translations, of one of Anacreon's Odes. For our parts, we think the best of them, compared to Moore's, is like Cooper's translation of the Iliad compared to Pope's.-ED.

I subjoin different translations of an ode of Anacreon, because I consider it one of the few genuine relics of this poet, and a chef-d'œuvre in the art of contrast. These verses would suggest to any painter the picture of an old man seated upon the turf, amidst myrtles and roses, rising under the weight of years by his buoyant gaiety, forgetting past sorrows, and dreamof pleasures to come. The contrasts in this single personage are further heightened by the figure of love, who, with the levity and curiosity of youth, hastens forward to pour out wine for the old man, and listens to his song. But to pourtray the still greater contrast which is produced by the solemnity of the old man's song, is beyond the painter's art. For, instead of the praises of pleasure, his theme is the shortness of life, and the long and inevitable sleep of death; whence he deduces the conclusive argument, that we must hasten to enjoy the present hour.-It appears to me that translators have not sufficiently availed themselves of these sudden transitions. The ancients were rather intemperate in their use of them; the moderns are too cautious in avoiding them.


Underneath the myrtle shade,

On flowery beds supinely laid,
Odorous oils my head overflowing,
And around it roses growing;

What shall I do, but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state,
Love himself shall on me wait.

Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up!
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay desires:
The wheel of life no less doth stay,
On a smooth than rugged way;
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be!

MOORE'S TRANSLATION. Strew me a breathing bed of leaves, Where Lotus 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 rundling 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 roses 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!


On beds of tender myrtle leaves,
Where trefoil grass its carpet weaves,
'Tis the passion of my soul
To quaff the health-provoking bowl,

Love, his mantle thrown behind,
With the flag of Nile confined,
Shall near me, ministering, stand,
The heady goblet in his hand.

As the chariot-wheel rolls on,
Life runs, and, as it runs, is gone:
Soon to dust our bodies turn ;-
Our bones are crumbled, in an urn,

What avails the perfume thrown
On cold earth, or on a stone?
While I live, let odours flow:
Thick round my brows let roses blow.

Call the mistress of my heart:
Love! ere yet I hence depart,
To join the dance of ghosts below,
I would scatter every woe,


Sovra i mirti e fra le rose,
Sovra molli erbe odorose,
Adagiato io voglio ber.
Deh t'annoda al collo il manto,
Bell' Amore! e mentr' io canto,
Corri a farmi da coppier.

Ahi! l' umana vita fugge
Come ruota che si strugge
Più che gira e sempre va.
Sonno eterno in poca ossa
Su la polvere e fra l'ossa
Il mio corpo dormira
Ache i balsami e i conforti
Su le tombe? Ache su' morti
Tanto vino e tanti fior;

A me il nappo, e la corona
Or ch' io spiro, or che risuona
La mia lira e m' arde il cor.

Vieni e meco ti trastulla;
Qui m' invita la fanciulla

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