But if this heart hath cherish'd yet,
A spark of honour's flame divine,
Then, false one! thou shalt still regret
The wrongs of such a heart as mine.
For in some lov'd one's faithful arms
I'll seek the faith by thee profest;
And smile to see what dark alarms
Shall harass thy repentant breast.
And thou, that o'er my hapless fate
Art now, perchance, the prouder grown,
And with a rival's joy elate,
Canst boast a treasure all thine own:
Though copious streams of wealth combined Should roll to thee their golden duty; Though learning's treasures store thy mind, And though thy form be graced with beauty:
Though now thou'rt clasp'd in love's embrace, Soon shalt thou mourn its joys departed;
And while I view thy luckless case,
I'll smile to see thee broken-hearted!
Ερασμίη πέλεια
Πόθεν πόθεν πέτασσαι.
TELL, oh! tell me, pretty dove!
Whither tends thy flight of love,
Tell me whence the sweets that fling
Their fragrance from thy wavy wing,
Tell me, pretty wand'rer, now,
Who, and what, and whence art thou?
I am bearing through the grove,
Anacreon's letters to his love,
To one, Anacreon's fav'rite theme,
Who reigns o'er all, his choice supreme.
'Twas Venus gave me to my lord,
His simplest song her sole reward!
And now, my duty and my bliss
Are to fulfil such tasks as this.
For I am charged, you see, to day,
Anacreon's letters to convey,
And more, they tell me too, that he
Will offer soon my liberty!
But though my master freedom gave,
I rather would remain his slave,
For no delight to me 'twould yield,
To fly afar, o'er mount and field,
Or perch amid the lonely wood,
And pine on rough and barb'rous food;
Since now I taste the nurture bland,
That's offer'd by Anacreon's hand,
And now presume, with him, to sup
My potion from Anacreon's cup,
Then grateful from the goblet spring,
To fan Anacreon with my wing,
Nay, more, whene'er my pinions tire,
I slumber on Anacreon's lyre!
This, this I am,-and now, farewell,
For while my happy tale I tell,
I scarce a due observance know,
But prattle, like the prattling crow!
*Αγε, ζωγράφων ἄριστε
Γράφε ζωγράφων ἄριστε.
MASTER of the rosy art,
Painter, list, while I impart
What loveliest charms are seen to blend
In thy fair face, my absent friend!
Paint, as much as pencil dare,
Paint me, first, her soft, dark hair,
Dropping odours rich and rare!
Next, those raven locks below,
Paint a forehead, white as snow;
Paint her eye-brows just combining,
Parted scarce,-yet scarcely joining,
Let their doubtful union be
Such as in herself we see!
Painter, next, thy skill require
To sketch her eye-an eye of fire.
Bright as Minerva's looks are seen,
Yet soft as smiles from Beauty's queen!
Mix the milk-drop with the rose,
And see her cheek of beauty glows!
Paint her small mouth's rosy blisses,
Tempting Love to pilfer kisses!
Round her fair neck let the lover
See unnumber'd graces hover,
Lastly o'er my charmer strew
A graceful robe of purple hue,
With her white skin just revealed,
To show how fair the charms concealed-
'Tis done,-I see the vision wake,
And almost hear the canvas speak!
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