reader! hast thou seen the greek anthology? if not, go get it. ’tis passing beautiful. dost thou wish to see into the very heart of the finest people god ever made? dost thou long to acquaint thee with the real character of the bright-souled grecian? then lay upon the shelf the fiery homer, with his “damnable iteration,” and even the neat xenophon—the soldier, historian, and philosopher. lay them aside, i bid thee, and run thine eye gently over those little heart-bursts, to which chance gave being, and which chance has most marvellously preserved. dost thou look to see the true proportions of the actor, as he “struts his brief hour upon the35 busy stage?” go to the green-room, and behold him divested of all the super-imposed grandeur of cork and buskin. dost thou think to know men, by scanning them, as they thread the streets of the city, as they toil in the heat of the forum, or pray among the pillars of the temple? the smile is, indeed, gracious—the bow lowly—the look subdued. but, man, you see the face, not the heart. they are all masquerading—most ludicrously too. go to their homes, my friend. watch them by their fire-sides—with their wives and children—in their household familiarity. vexings are upon them, and their hearts are troubled. the world—the censorious world is far away, and they fear not the scrutiny of its prying eyes. a cloud comes over the sunshine of the soul, and they fret and fume at their petty tribulations. and are these those unctuous men, on whose faces sat enthroned such unruffled peace? yea, verily!

thou mayest think this an impertinent digression; but i made it, and i best know its design. ’tis merely a rambling illustration—a stroll through the woods instead of a prosing walk along the road. ’tis a similitude, i say—too long—yet a good one. its pith is this. the poets, orators, philosophers, and historians—in fine, all the great authors dressed for court, or—if that term seem too monarchical for the republic of letters—they dressed for a levee—a democratic jam—they rouged, frizzled, combed, brushed, and bedizened themselves artificially. homer, the oldest, is likewise the simplest of them all. but even he knew that he was stared at, and, like a man in company, adjusted his neckoloth, felt queer, and walked stiff. he does not give his own sentiments—he was writing a history of his nation, and it was at once his interest and his pleasure, to gild each slightest incident, and turn poverty to splendor. thus does he show us about as much of the real character of those simple people in that early age, as do the roundelays of chivalry acquaint us with the habits of those motley knights, whose loves they celebrate, and whose prowess they record. it is not, then, in the elaborate writers of any nation, that you are to look for faithful portraitures of that nation’s character. great geniuses bear the same leading traits in all climates, and their works are simple mental creations, rather than copies of the habits of their age. ’tis familiarity with the various effusions of a thousand different pens—drinking from the heart’s overflowing fullness,—that thoroughly acquaints one with a people.

reader, i am weary of these remarks, as i doubt not thou art. therefore will i cease. and here would i advertise thee that i travel more for my own pleasure than for thine. my path lies through a lovely country, and i shall walk, run, halt, refresh, whenever and wherever i think proper. i shall take the cross-roads—rove through the green fields—lie under the shady trees—and drink of the cool springs. if thou wilt wander with me, it is well, and i36 trust our trip will be a merry one. it is my design to do into english—as we may aptly express such barbarous usage—some of the anthology—to transplant and naturalize among our northern rocks some of those rare and beautiful exotics. the soil is cold, and the clime rude—yet, with thy fostering care, and sunny smiles, the flowers may grow. and if, thus roughly torn from their warm home, they seem pale and sickly, have the justice, kind reader, to believe that they were beautiful—yea! most beautiful. the blame be on the unskillful hand that removed them from their own sunny greece—the garden, where they bloomed. thou knowest that the syrian olive would be but a stinted thing among the snows of greenland, even though “with cost, and care, and warmth, induced to shoot.” perchance my efforts may not be entirely without their value, since those, who have drunk with thirsty fervor at the fountain, my awkward paraphrase will only send back to their “first love” with renewed devotion, while that sun of poetry, which, though “shorn of his beams,” will not, i trust, have lost all “his original brightness,” will, in others, enkindle a holy ardor to climb the “aonian mount,” and gaze full on his unclouded splendor.

first of all, let me present thee with a glorious song—i mean glorious in its primal sky of greece, before my dull northern disc transmitted its beams, dimmed and diminished. it is an ode to two tyrannicidal brothers, aristogeiton and harmodius, who, at the panathenian festival of minerva, concealing swords in the myrtle branches borne on that occasion, attacked hipparchus, and by his death regained their country’s freedom. it was sung by the greeks at their entertainments. it has been anglicised frequently, but its simple beauty, and deep enthusiasm, defy all translation.

in branch of myrtle will i bear the sword,

as did harmodius of old,

when slew he athens’ tyrant-lord,

and, with his brother bold,

armed in his country’s cause,

preserved her equal laws.

dearest harmodius! thou art not dead;

but in the islands of the bless’d thou art,

where swift achilles rests his weary head,

and brave tydides calms his stormy heart.

in branch of myrtle will i bear the sword,

as did harmodius of old,

who, with his brother bold,

when votive cups at pallas’ shrine were poured,

destroyed hipparchus, athens’ tyrant-lord.

thy glory on the earth shall never fade,

dearest harmodius, with thy brother brave,

because the tyrant in the dust ye laid,

and did the equal laws of athens save.

37 what have we next? pollianus. and who was pollianus? i know not. it is certain he has left us a very pretty epigram, which i have thus endeavored to render in latin and english. hem tibi!

to a miserly usurer.

multa tenes, et nulla tenes. quare? omnia locas.

sic te inopem reddis, debitor ut teneat.

though rich, yet poor. how thus? your all you lend,

and rob yourself of what your debtors spend.

here follows another, and, once for all, if any proud critic, in his wisdom, or pretty girl, in her ignorance, object to my translating, now and then, into bald latin as well as plain english, let them know that i am a bit of a pedant. some of it needs a latin guise, to cover its roughness. the critic may deride, si placet, and the lady skip, if she like.

epigram.—by julianus egyptius, whose poverty secured him against robbers.

aedibus ex aliis, fures, vos quaerite lucrum.

his foribus custos pauperies mea erit.

expect not here, ye thieves, your lust to sate,

for need, strong portress, watcheth at the gate.

here is an epitaph. upon whom? euripides. by whom. thucydides. read it. it is instructive. the subject and the author are dead; but each sleeps under a stately tomb. their works are their mausolea. but the idea—is it not affecting? twenty-three centuries agone, a great historian weeping over the grave of a splendid poet!

greece is thy tomb; but sparta holds thy clay,

for there thy life beheld its latest day.

athens—the greece of greece—first gave thee breath,

dear to the muses, and renowned in death.

an epitaph, which hippo ordered to be placed on his monument.

lo! hippo’s tomb, whom fate, by death, has made

peer to the gods in their immortal shade.

by rufinus, to melite—anglicè, fanny—a very pretty girl.

lumina habes junonia pulchra, manusque minervae,

pectora (proh!) veneris, atque pedes thetidos.

felix, qui viderit, qui te audieritque, beatus:

semideus tui amans, omnideus tui vir.

the word omnideus i claim as my own. i made it myself. noli tangere.

38

thy face is brightened by fair juno’s eyes,

and pallas lends thee her immortal hand;

thy breasts, like those of paphian venus, rise;

thy feet, like thetis’, trip across the sand.

ah! happy he, that gazes on thy face,

and he twice-bless’d, that listens to thy voice;

thy lover, sure, is of angelic race,

and—a bright god—thy husband may rejoice.

an address to mammon, by timocrates, the rhodian.

vellem, vellem, caece plute,

nec in terra, nec in alto,

tua forma cerneretur.

tartarum autem inhabitare,

acheronta teque oportet.

ex te namque prava nobis

enasci omnia videntur.

sightless mammon, may’st thou be

neither on the earth nor sea;

but be thou condemned to dwell

in the deepest depth of hell.

for, thou eyeless god, from thee

springeth all our misery.

here we have plato—the philosopher—tilting it in verse.

to aristophanes, the comedian.

the graces, seeking long to find

some temple, free from all decay,

chose, aristophanes, thy mind,

as that, which cannot pass away.

to sappho.

falsely they say the muses are but nine—

a tenth is lesbian sappho—the divine.

in the following little morceau, the frog is considered as a priest to the nymphs, whose particular jurisdiction was over streams and fountains.

to a brazen frog, set up by a traveler, as an offering to the nymphs.

thee—the nymphs’ servant—lover of the shower—

moist songster, dwelling in the shallow springs—

the traveler, forming with mimetic power,

a brazen offering, to the temple brings.

for to the wanderer thine amphibious note

forth from thy dewy lodge, all timely, rung,

and led his fainting footsteps to the spot,

where from the earth the gushing fountain sprung.

39

to a statue of pan—the shepherd-god—carved with a pipe in his mouth.

seat thee, o pan, beneath this vocal tree,

whose high leaves whisper, as the west-winds rise.

and by my gurgling springs thy pipe shall be

a lull of magic to my closing eyes.

to a statue of venus, at cnidus, by praxiteles.

to view her image at her cnidian shrine.

the paphian goddess through the billows came,

looked long upon the lineaments divine,

and gazed, in rapture, at the faultless frame.

“where did the sculptor view my naked form

with gaze unlawful?” cythereia cried;

“’tis the cold chisel makes the marble warm,

like me, when ares for my beauty sighed.”

reader! should we meet again, be it kindly.

hermeneutes.