The Odes of Anacreon.

by Thomas Moore.

INTRODUCTION TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.

Amongst the innumerable translators of Anacreon, there was one--a Frenchman by birth--who was both an ill.u.s.trious painter and a literary enthusiast. Girodet de Roussy, inspired by a genius altogether Greek in its character, has translated Anacreon better by his pencil than he could have been translated by words. One might fancy that his designs had been executed under Anacreon's own eye by some Greek artist, who had himself witnessed that soft and voluptuous existence, where song and pleasure are one.

Seldom indeed have chasteness of execution and voluptuousness of character been so curiously and indissolubly blended. Seldom has a modern artist so happily caught the spirit of an ancient poet. We seem to be transported, as in a dream, to the vines, and orange-groves, and cloudless skies of Greece, and the wearied spirit abandons itself for a while to the soft influences of the azure heaven, the countless luxuriance of roses, the undulating forms of the fair girls dancing in the shade, while youthful attendants brim the beaker with wine. Under such influences we remember that youth, and love, and mirth are immortal, and we say with Horace,--

'Nec, si quid olim lusit Anacreon Delevit aetas.'[1]

In that close wrestle of the genius that imitates with the genius that creates, Girodet alone came out from the trial successfully. He has shown himself the rival of Anacreon in grace, in _abandon_, in _navete_. He has succeeded in depicting his poet's theme with equal elegance and delicacy. Loving with a real love those old Greek songs, he has displayed them in living beauty before our eyes in fifty-four exquisite drawings. To attempt such a masterpiece required a poet's as well as a painter's skill; and Girodet was both a painter and a poet.

In examining these compositions, one cannot abstain from a certain kind of surprise: all the odes of Anacreon revolve upon two or three central ideas, expressed in a manner full of grace, unquestionably, but still always the same ideas. The artist, while not deviating from the narrow circle traced for him by the poet, shows a fecundity and variety that are truly marvellous--that astonish and enchant us at the same time. The n.o.bility, elegance, and wealth of accessories that prevail throughout the whole series might, as we have already hinted, lead us to suppose that we owed them to one of the famous artists that Greece produced: the painter and the poet seem to have been born under one heaven, and informed with one soul.

The manners of the time in which Anacreon lived permitted him to say many things which, in their crudity, might offend our modern taste.

Girodet is not less voluptuous than Anacreon; but he always maintains that grace and delicacy which add so great a charm to the voluptuous: nowhere in his animated panorama is sight or sense shocked.

These designs originally accompanied a translation of the Odes of Anacreon, made by the painter himself and published shortly after his death. Some small photographs of them on a greatly reduced scale appeared in 1864, in an exquisite little edition of the original Greek, from the press of Firmin Didot, at the almost prohibitive price of Two Pounds. The present reproductions are on a scale more proportionate with the originals, and const.i.tute the first appearance of Girodet's designs in England, where, we feel a.s.sured, they will be appreciated as they deserve by all true lovers of cla.s.sical art.

The English verse-translation of Moore has been chosen to accompany them, because, though it has often been objected to by the learned for its imperfect scholarship, it seemed to us to be most in harmony with the real spirit of the great French painter, and of the old Greek poet himself.

_Oct. 25, 1869._

FOOTNOTES:

[1] 'Time cannot raze Anacreon's name, Nor prey upon his youthful strains.'

_ODE I._

I often wish this languid lyre, This warbler of my soul's desire, Could raise the breath of song sublime, To men of fame in former time.

But when the soaring theme I try, Along the chords my numbers die, And whisper, with dissolving tone, 'Our sighs are given to love alone!'

Indignant at the feeble lay, I tore the panting chords away, Attuned them to a n.o.bler swell, And struck again the breathing sh.e.l.l;

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In all the glow of epic fire, To Hercules I wake the lyre!

But still its fainting sighs repeat, 'The tale of love alone is sweet!'

Then fare thee well, seductive dream, That madest me follow Glory's theme; For thou my lyre, and thou my heart, Shall never more in spirit part; And thou the flame shalt feel as well As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell.

_ODE II._

To all that breathe the airs of heaven, Some boon of strength has Nature given.

When the majestic bull was born, She fenced his brow with wreathed horn.

She arm'd the courser's foot of air, And wing'd with speed the panting hare.

She gave the lion fangs of terror, And, on the ocean's crystal mirror, Taught the unnumber'd scaly throng To trace their liquid path along; While for the umbrage of the grove,

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She plumed the warbling bird of love.

To man she gave the flame refined, The spark of heaven--a thinking mind!

And had she no surpa.s.sing treasure, For thee, oh woman! child of pleasure?

She gave thee beauty--shaft of eyes, That every shaft of war outflies!

She gave thee beauty--blush of fire, That bids the flames of war retire!

Woman! be fair, we must adore thee; Smile, and a world is weak before thee!

_ODE III._

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole The sullen Bear is seen to roll; And mortals, wearied with the day, Are slumbering all their cares away; An infant, at that dreary hour, Came weeping to my silent bower, And waked me with a piteous prayer, To save him from the midnight air!

'And who art thou,' I waking cry, 'That bidd'st my blissful visions fly?'

'O gentle sire!' the infant said, 'In pity take me to thy shed; Nor fear deceit: a lonely child I wander o'er the gloomy wild.

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Chill drops the rain, and not a ray Illumes the drear and misty way!'

I hear the baby's tale of woe; I hear the bitter night-winds blow; And sighing for his piteous fate, I trimm'd my lamp and oped the gate.

'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite, His pinion sparkled through the night!

I knew him by his bow and dart; I knew him by my fluttering heart!

I take him in, and fondly raise The dying embers' cheering blaze;

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Press from his dank and clinging hair The crystals of the freezing air, And in my hand and bosom hold His little fingers thrilling cold.

And now the embers' genial ray Had warm'd his anxious fears away: 'I pray thee,' said the wanton child, (My bosom trembled as he smiled,) 'I pray thee let me try my bow, For through the rain I've wander'd so, That much I fear the ceaseless shower Has injured its elastic power.'

The fatal bow the urchin drew; Swift from the string the arrow flew;

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Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame And to my very soul it came!

'Fare thee well,' I heard him say, As laughing wild he wing'd away: 'Fare thee well, for now I know The rain has not relax'd my bow; It still can send a maddening dart, As thou shalt own with all thy heart!'