Array Anacreon - The Greatest Classics of Ancient Greece

And when at length, in pale decline,

Its florid beauties fade and pine,

Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath

Diffuses odour e'en in death!

Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung?

Attend—for thus the tale is sung.

When, humid, from the silvery stream,

Effusing beauty's warmest beam,

Venus appear'd, in flushing hues,

Mellow'd by ocean's briny dews;

When, in the starry courts above,

The pregnant brain of mighty Jove

Disclosed the nymph of azure glance,

The nymph who shakes the martial lance!

Then, then, in strange eventful hour,

The earth produced an infant flower,

Which sprung, with blushing tinctures drest,

And wanton'd o'er its parent breast.

The gods beheld this brilliant birth,

And hail'd the Rose, the boon of earth!

With nectar drops, a ruby tide,

The sweetly orient buds they dyèd,

And bade them bloom, the flowers divine

Of him who sheds the teeming vine;

And bade them on the spangled thorn

Expand their bosoms to the morn.

ODE XXXIX.

WHEN I behold the festive train

Of dancing youth, I'm young again!

Memory wakes her magic trance,

And wings me lightly through the dance.

Come, Cybeba, smiling maid!

Cull the flower and twine the braid;

Bid the blush of summer's rose

Burn upon my brow of snows;

And let me, while the wild and young

Trip the mazy dance along,

Fling my heap of years away,

And be as wild, as young as they.

Hither haste, some cordial soul!

Give my lips the brimming bowl;

Oh! you will see this hoary sage

Forget his locks, forget his age.

He still can chant the festive hymn,

He still can kiss the goblet's brim;

He still can act the mellow raver,

And play the fool as sweet as ever!

ODE XL.

WE read the flying courser's name

Upon his side in marks of flame;

And, by their turban'd brows alone,

The warriors of the East are known.

But in the lover's glowing eyes,

The inlet to his bosom lies;

Thro' them we see the small faint mark,

Where Love has dropt his burning spark!

ODE XLI.

WHEN Spring begems the dewy scene,

How sweet to walk the velvet green,

And hear the Zephyr's languid sighs,

As o'er the scented mead he flies!

How sweet to mark the pouting vine,

Ready to fall in tears of wine;

And with the maid, whose every sigh

Is love and bliss, entranced to lie

Where the imbowering branches meet—

Oh! is not this divinely sweet?

ODE XLII.

I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure,

The minstrel of the Teian measure;

'Twas in a vision of the night.

He beam'd upon my wond'ring sight;

I heard his voice, and warmly prest

The dear enthusiast to my breast.

His tresses wore a silvery dye,

But beauty sparkled in his eye;

Sparkled in his eyes of fire,

Through the mist of soft desire.

His lip exhaled, whene'er he sigh'd,

The fragrance of the racy tide;

And, as with weak and reeling feet,

He came my coral kiss to meet,

An infant, of the Cyprian band,

Guided him on with tender hand.

Quick from his glowing brows he drew

His braid, of many a wanton hue,

I took the braid of wanton twine,

It breathed of him and blush'd with wine!

I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow,

And ah! I feel its magic now!

I feel that e'en his garland's touch

Can make the bosom love too much!

ODE XLIII.

GIVE me the harp of epic song,

Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;

But tear away the sanguine string,

For war is not the theme I sing.

Proclaim the laws of festal right

I'm monarch of the board to-night;

And all around shall brim as high,

And quaff the tide as deep as I!

And when the cluster's mellowing dews

Their warm, enchanting balm infuse

Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound,

And reel us through the dance's round.

Oh, Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,

In wild but sweet ebriety!

And flash around such sparks of thought,

As Bacchus could alone have taught!

Then give the harp of epic song,

Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;

But tear away the sanguine string,

For war is not the theme I sing!

ODE XLIV.

LISTEN to the Muse's lyre,

Master of the pencil's fire!

Sketch'd in painting's bold display,

Many a city first pourtray;

Many a city revelling free,

Warm with loose festivity.

Picture then a rosy train,

Bacchants straying o'er the plain;

Piping, as they roam along,

Roundelay or shepherd-song.

Paint me next, if painting may

Such a theme as this pourtray,

All the happy heaven of love,

These elect of Cupid prove.

ODE XLV.

AS late I sought the spangled bowers,

To cull a wreath of matin flowers,

Where many an early rose was weeping,

I found the urchin Cupid sleeping.

I caught the boy, a goblet's tide

Was richly mantling by my side,

I caught him by his downy wing,

And whelm'd him in the racy spring.

Oh! then I drank the poison'd bowl,

And Love now nestles in my soul!

Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,

I feel him fluttering in my breast.

Table of Contents

The Life and Work of Theognis of Megara

Angry Words

Beward Crafty Minds

Easy Friends

An Even Line

Fame

Fate

Hope

Human Nature

The Insolence of Wealth

Learning and Wealth

On Arranged Marriage

On Inborn Traits

The Poet and His Muse

Poverty

Pride and the State

A Secret Spring

Sumptuous Obsequies

Sumptuous Obsequies

A Time for Wine

Wine

Worldly Wisdom

Table of Contents

THEOGNIS of Megara, by far the best preserved of the elegists, owes his immortality to his maxims, the brief statements of practical philosophy which the Greeks called 'Gnômai' and the Romans 'Sentenliœ.' Some are merely moral --

"Fairest is righteousness, and best is health,And sweetest is to win the heart's desire."

Some are bitter --

"Few men can cheat their haters, Kyrnos mine;Only true love is easy to betray!"

Many show the exile waiting for his revenge --

"Drink while they drink, and, though thine heart be galled,Let no man living count the wounds of it:There comes a day for patience, and a dayFor deeds and joy, to all men and to thee!"

Theognis's doctrine is not food for babes. He is a Dorian noble, and a partisan of the bitterest type in a state renowned for its factions. He drinks freely; he speaks of the Demos as 'the vile' or as 'my enemies'; once he prays Zeus to "give him their black blood to drink." That was when the Demos had killed all his friends, and driven him to beggary and exile, and the proud man had to write poems for those who entertained him. We hear, for instance, of an elegy on some Syracusans slain in battle. Our extant remains are entirely personal ebullitions of feeling or monitory addresses, chiefly to his squire Kyrnos. His relations with Kyrnos are typical of the Dorian soldier. He takes to battle with him a boy, his equal in station, to whom he is 'like a father' (l. 1049). He teaches him all the duties of Dorian chivalry -- to fight, to suffer in silence, to stick to a friend, to keep clear of falsehood, and to avoid associating with 'base men.' He is pledged to bring the boy back safe, or die on the field himself; and he is disgraced if the boy does not grow up to be a worthy and noble Dorian. In the rest of his relations with the squire, there is some sentiment which we cannot enter into: there were no women in the Dorian camps. It is the mixed gift of good and evil brought by the Dorian invaders to Greece, which the true Greek sometimes over-admired because it was so foreign to him -- self-mastery, courage, grossness, and pride, effective devotion to a narrow class and an uncivilised ideal. Our MSS. of Theognis come from a collection made for educational purposes in the third century B.C., and show that state of interpolation which is characteristic of the schoolbook. Whole passages of Solon, Mimnermus, Tyrtæus, and another elegist Euênus, originally jotted on the margin for purposes of comparison, have now crept into the text. The order of the 'Gnomes' is confused; and we sometimes have what appear to be two separate versions of the same gnome, an original and an abbreviation. There is a certain blindness of frank pride and chivalry, a depth of hatred and love, and a sense of mystery, which make Theognis worthy of the name of poet.