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CALLIMACHUS.

FLOURISHED ABOUT 260 B. C.

Or the writings of this most distinguished grammarian, critic, and poet of the Alexandrian period, we have only a few hymns and inscriptions. He was the keeper of the Alexandrian library under Ptolemy Philadelphus, and his son Ptolemy Euergetes, and improved the advantages which that great library afforded him, by writing a very comprehensive history of Greek literature, and other works of literary criticism, which, had they come down to us, would be of inestimable value. But all these have perished. Of his poetical productions there are extant six Hymns, seventy-three Epigrams, and a few Elegies.1

THE VIRGIN'S OFFERING TO VENUS.2

A shell, Zephyritis, is all that I am,
First fruits from Selena to thee.
Time was, that a nautilus gayly I swam,
And steer'd my light bark on the sea.

Then hoisting my own little yards and my sail,
I swam the soft breeze as it came,

And rowed with my feet, if a calm did prevail,
And thus, Cypris, got I my name.

But cast by the waves on the Iülian shore,

I am sent for a plaything to thee,

Now lifeless; the sea-loving halcyon no more
Shall brood on the waters for me.

Arsinöe! oh, may all grace from thy hand
On Clinias' daughter alight;

From Smyrna she sends in Æolia's land,
And sweet be her gift in thy sight.

S. Trevor.

'Editions: J. A. Ernesti's, Leyden, 1761, two volumes; Loesner's, Leipsic, 1774, 8vo.; Volzer's, Leipsic, 1817, 8vo.; and C. F. Bloomfield's, London, 1815. Translations: William Dodd, London, 4to., 1755; H. W. Tytler, London, 1793.

It was a custom among the Greek girls on the eve of marriage, to consecrate some favorite toy of their childish years to Venus, and happy might the bride esteem herself, if, like our Selena, the daughter of Clinias, she had it in her power to present, from her cabinet of shells and marine curiosities, a tribute so magnificent as that of the shining conch of the nautilus. The Venus Zephyritis (so called from the promontory of Zephyrion, near Alexandria, where her temple stood) was also called Chloris and Arsinoe, and, in fact, was no other than the deified wife of Ptolemy Philadelphus.

ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME.

Queen of the Zephyr's breezy cape! to thee
This polish'd shell, the treasure of the sea,
Her earliest offspring young Selena bears,
Join'd with the incense of her maiden prayers.
Erewhile with motion, power, and sense endued,
Alive it floated on the parent flood;

When, if the gale more rudely breathed, it gave
Its natural sail expanded to the wave;
But while the billows slept upon the shore,
And the tempestuous winds forgot to roar,
Like some proud galley, floated on the tide,
And busy feet the want of oars supplied.
Shipwreck'd at last upon th' Iülian strand,
It now, Arsinöe, asks thy favoring hand.
No more its vows the plaintive Halcyon hail
For the soft breathings of a western gale;
But that, O mighty queen, thy genial power
On young Selena every gift may shower,
That love with beauteous innocence can share;
For these, and only these, accept the prayer.

Merivale.

THE BATH OF MINERVA.

Maidens in times of old, Minerva loved
A fair companion with exceeding love,
The mother of Tiresias; nor apart

Lived they a moment.

Yet for this nymph, this mother, was reserved
A store of tears; ay, for this favor'd nymph,

The pleasing partner of Minerva's hours.
For once, on Helicon, they loosed the clasps,

That held their flowing robes, and bathed their limbs

In Hippocrene, that, beauteous, glided by ;

While noonday stillness wrapp'd the mountain round.
Both laved together; 'twas the time of noon;

And deep the stilly silence of the mount.
When, with his dogs of chase, Tiresias trod

That sacred haunt. The darkening down just bloom'd
Upon his cheek. With thirst unutterable

Panting, he sought that fountain's gushing stream,
Unhappy; and, involuntary, saw

What mortal eyes, not blameless, may behold.
Minerva, though incensed, thus pitying spoke:
"Who to this luckless spot conducted thee,

Oh son of Everus? who sightless hence

Must needs depart!" she said, and darkness fell
On the youth's eyes, astonished where he stood:
A shooting anguish all his nerves benumb'd,
And consternation chain'd his murmuring tongue.

Then shriek'd the nymph: "What, Goddess, hast thou done
To this my child? are these the tender acts
Of Goddesses? thou hast bereaved of eyes
My son. Oh miserable child! thy gaze

Has glanced upon the bosom and the shape
Of Pallas; but the sun thou must behold
No more. Oh miserable me! oh shades
Of Helicon! oh mountain, that my steps
Shall ne'er again ascend! for small offence
Monstrous atonement! thou art well repaid
For some few straggling goats and hunted deer
With my son's eyes !" the nymph then folded close,
With both her arms, her son so dearly loved,
And utter'd lamentation, with shrill voice
And plaintive, like the mother nightingale.
The Goddess felt compassion for the nymph,
The partner of her soul, and softly said:
"Retract, divinest woman! what thy rage,
Erring, has utter'd. 'Tis not I, that smite
Thy son with blindness. Pallas hath no joy
To rob from youths the lustre of their eyes.
The laws of Saturn this decree. Whoe'er
Looks on a being of immortal race.
Unless the willing God consent, must look,
Thus, at his peril, and atoning pay
The dreadful penalty. This act of fate,
Divinest woman! may not be recall'd.
So spun the destinies his mortal thread,
When thou didst bear him.

But weep no more, companion! for thy sake
I yet have ample recompense in store
For this thy son. Behold! I bid him rise
A prophet: far o'er every seer renown'd
To future ages. He shall read the flights
Of birds, and know whatever on the wing
Hovers auspicious, or ill-omen'd flies,
Or void of auspice. Many oracles
To the Bootians shall his tongue reveal;
To Cadmus, and the great Labdacian tribe.
I will endow him with a mighty staff,
To guide his steps aright; and I will give
A lengthen'd boundary to his mortal life;
And, when he dies, he only, midst the dead,
Shall dwell inspired, and honor'd by that king
Who rules the shadowy people of the grave."

She spoke, and gave the nod; what Pallas wills
Is sure in her, of all his daughters, Jove
Bade all the glories of her father shine.

Maids of the bath! no mother brought her forth;
Sprung from the head of Jove. Whate'er the head
Of Jove, inclining, ratifies, the same

Stands firm; and thus his daughter's nod is fate.

BION.

FLOURISHED ABOUT 280 B. C.

THIS charming poet was born at Phlossa, a small town on the river Meles, near Smyrna. But very little is known of his life; and even this must be inferred from the third Idyl of Moschus, who laments his untimely death. He appears to have left his native land early, and gone to Alexandria, then the literary metropolis of the world. Here, for a few years, he basked in the favor of Ptolemy Philometer; but having in some way given offence to the king, he left Egypt, and went to Sicily, where he remained many years cultivating Bucolic poetry, for which that island was famous. Thence he visited Macedonia and Thrace; and was finally put to death by poison administered, it is thought, by persons in the employ of Ptolemy. Moschus relates that they met the punishment due to their crime.

Nothing more than mere fragments of the poetry of Bion has come down to us; but in these we see a refinement of style, a loftiness of sentiment, and a fluency and elegance of versification, that make us regret that we have no more.' The Greeks have hardly left us anything in poetry more beautiful than the

LAMENT FOR ADONIS.

I.

I mourn for Adonis-Adonis is dead!

Fair Adonis is dead, and the Loves are lamenting.

Sleep, Cypris, no more, on thy purple-strewed bed;

Arise, wretch stoled in black-beat thy breast unrelenting, And shriek to the worlds, "Fair Adonis is dead."

Editions: Fr. Jacobs, Gotha, 1795, 8vo. Gilbert Wakefield, London, 1795. J. F. Manso, Leipsic, 1807, 8vo. This contains an elaborate dissertation on the life and poetry of Bion, a commentary, and a German translation. English translations: prose by Rev. J. Banks in Bohn's Classical Library; metrical versions by Fawkes, Merivale, C. A. Elton, and Polwhele.

i

II.

I mourn for Adonis-the Loves are lamenting.

He lies on the hills, in his beauty and death-
The white tusk of a boar has transpierced his white thigh;
And his Cypris grows mad at the thin gasping breath,
While the black blood drips down on the pale ivory:

And his eyeballs lie quenched with the weight of his brows.
The rose fades from his lips, and, upon them just parted,
The kiss dies which Cypris consents not to lose,

Though the kiss of the Dead cannot make her glad-hearted—
He knows not who kisses him dead in the dews.

III.

I mourn for Adonis-the Loves are lamenting.
Deep, deep in the thigh, is Adonis's wound;
But a deeper, is Cypris's bosom presenting-

The youth lieth dead, while his dogs howl around,
And the nymphs weep aloud from the mists of the hill-
And the poor Aphrodite, with tresses unbound,

All dishevelled, unsandalled, shrieks mournful and shrill
Through the dusk of the groves. The thorns, tearing her feet,
Gather up the red flower of her blood, which is holy,
Each footstep she takes; and the valleys repeat

The sharp cry which she utters, and draw it out slowly.
She calls on her spouse, her Assyrian; on him

Her own youth; while the dark blood spreads over his body—
The chest taking hue, from the gash in the limb,
And the bosom, once ivory, turning to ruddy.

IV.

Ah, ah, Cytherea! the Loves are lamenting:

She lost her fair spouse, and so lost her fair smile

When he lived she was fair, by the whole world's consenting,
Whose fairness is dead with him! wo worth the while!

All the mountains above and the oaklands below

Murmur, ah, ah, Adonis! the streams overflow

Aphrodite's deep wail-river fountains in pity

Weep soft in the hills; and the flowers, as they blow,
Redden outward with sorrow; while all hear her go
With the song of her sadness, through mountain and city.

V.

Ah, ah, Cytherea! Adonis is dead:

Fair Adonis is dead-Echo answers, Adonis !

Who weeps not for Cypris, when, bowing her head,

She stares at the wound where it gapes and astonies?

When, ah, ah! she saw how the blood ran away

And empurpled the thigh; and, with wild hands flung out, Said with sobs, "Stay, Adonis, unhappy one, stay

Let me feel thee once more-let me ring thee about