_Anacreon._—Spirit of love, whose tresses shine Along the breeze in golden twine; Come, within a fragrant cloud, Blushing with light, thy votary shroud; And, on those wings that sparkling play, Waft, oh! waft me hence away! Love! my soul is full of thee, Alive to all thy luxury. But she, the nymph for whom I glow, The pretty Lesbian, mocks my woe; Smiles at the hoar and silver'd hues Which time upon my forehead strews. Alas! I fear she keeps her charms In store for younger, happier arms! _Sappho._—Oh Muse! who sitt'st on golden throne, Full many a hymn of dulcet tone The Teian sage is taught by thee; But, goddess, from thy throne of gold, The sweetest hymn thou'st ever told, He lately learn'd and sang for me.—THOS. MOORE. _The same._ Pelting with a purple ball, Bright-hair'd Cupid gives the call, And tries his antics one and all, My steps to her to wile; But she—for thousands round her vie— Casts on my tell-tale locks her eye, And bids the grey-hair'd poet sigh— Another wins her smile!—ANON. * * * * * ALCMAN. (Book xiii. § 75, p. 958.) Again sweet Love, by Cytherea led, Hath all my soul possest; Again delicious rapture shed In torrents o'er my breast. Now Megalostrata the fair, Of all the Virgin train Most blessed—with her yellow floating hair— Hath brought me to the Muses' holy fane, To flourish there.—BLAND. * * * * * IBYCUS. (Book xiii. § 76, p. 958.) What time soft Zephyrs fan the trees In the blest gardens of th' Hesperides, Where those bright golden apples glow, Fed by the fruitful streams that round them flow, And new-born clusters teem with wine Beneath the shadowy foliage of the vine; To me the joyous season brings But added torture on his sunny wings. Then Love, the tyrant of my breast, Impetuous ravisher of joy and rest, Bursts, furious, from his mother's arms, And fills my trembling soul with new alarms; Like Boreas from his Thracian plains, Clothed in fierce lightnings, in my bosom reigns, And rages still, the madd'ning power— His parching flames my wither'd heart devour; Wild Phrensy comes my senses o'er, Sweet Peace is fled, and Reason rules no more.—BLAND. * * * * * CHÆREMON. (Book xiii. § 87, p. 970.)