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? They lay beside our glancing rills, Where elk and deer before us fly; They bent no more the forest bow, They arm'd not with the warrior band, Son of the Stranger! if at eve Silence be midst us in thy place, Yet go not where the mighty leave F. H. New Monthly Magazine. ANACREON. 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. COWLEY'S TRANSLATION. What shall I do, but drink away Fill to me, Love! nay, fill it up! Let the motion pleasant be! MOORE'S TRANSLATION. Strew me a breathing bed of leaves, With cinctures round his snowy breast, Himself shall hover by my side And minister the racy tide! Swift as the wheels that rundling roll, Can flowery breeze or odour's breath, And bring the nymph with floating eye, ELTON'S TRANSLATION. 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, As the chariot-wheel rolls on, Our bones are crumbled, in an urn, What avails the perfume thrown Love! ere yet I hence depart, I would scatter every woe, AN ITALIAN TRANSLATION. Sovra i mirti e fra le rose, Deh t'annoda al collo il manto, Ahi! l'umana vita fugge Ache i balsami e i conforti Su le tombe? Ache su' morti Tanto vino e tanti fior; A me il nappo, e la corona Vieni e meco ti trastulla; |