imitators, perhaps
as brilliant as the master, have sprung up and produced a mass of songs;
and at this time it remains in doubt whether any complete poem of
Anacreon remains untouched. For this reason the collection is commonly
termed 'Anacreontics'. Some of the poems are referred to the school of
Gaza and the fourth century after Christ, and some to the secular
teachings and refinement of the monks of the Middle Ages. Since the
discovery and publication of the text by Henry Stephens, in 1554, poets
have indulged their lighter fancies in such songs, and a small
literature of delicate trifles now exists under the name of
'Anacreontics' in Italian, German, and English. Bergk's recension of the
poems appeared in 1878. The standard translations, or rather imitations
in English, are those of Cowley and Moore. The Irish poet was not unlike
in nature to the ancient Ionian. Moore's fine voice in the London
drawing-rooms echoes at times the note of Anacreon in the men's quarters
of Polycrates or the symposia of Hipparchus. The joy of feasting and
music, the color of wine, and the scent of roses, alike inspire the
songs of each.

DRINKING

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again,
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So filled that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and, when he's done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

--Cowley's Translation.

AGE

Oft am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon, thou grow'st old!
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects I do not know;
This I know, without being told,
'Tis time to live, if I grow old;
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manag