sacrificed some of her hair, laying it on the altar of a temple,
from which it was subsequently stolen. In his poem, Callimachus as the
court poet sang how the gods had taken the tresses and placed them among
the stars. The delicate and humorous 'Rape of the Lock' of Alexander
Pope is a rather remote repetition of the same fancy.

We have also from Callimachus's hand six hymns to the gods and many
epigrams, the latter of which, as will be seen by the quotations given
below, are models of their kind. His lyric hymns are, in reality, rather
epics in little. They are full of recondite information, overloaded
indeed with learning; elegant, nervous, and elaborate, rather than
easy-flowing, simple, and warm, like a genuine product of the muse. Many
of his epigrams grace the 'Greek Anthology.'

Among the best editions of Callimachus is that of Ernesti (1761). The
extant poems and fragments have been in part translated by William Dodd
(1755) and H. W. Tytler (1856). His scattered epigrams have incited many
to attempt their perfect phrasing.

HYMN TO JUPITER

At Jove's high festival, what song of praise
Shall we his suppliant adorers sing?
To whom may we our paeans rather raise
Than to himself, the great Eternal King,
Who by his nod subdues each earth-born thing;
Whose mighty laws the gods themselves obey?
But whether Crete first saw the Father spring,
Or on Lycaeus's mount he burst on day,
My soul is much in doubt, for both that praise essay.

Some say that thou, O Jove, first saw the morn
On Cretan Ida's sacred mountain-side;
Others that thou in Arcady wert born:
Declare, Almighty Father--which have lied?
Cretans were liars ever: in their pride
Have they built up a sepulchre for thee;
As if the King of Gods and men had died,
And borne the lot of frail mortality.
No! thou hast ever been, and art, and aye shalt be.

Thy mother bore thee on Arcadian ground,
Old Goddess Rhea, on a mountain's height;
With bristling bramble-thickets all around
The hallowed spot was curiously dight;
And now no creature under heaven's light,
From lovely woman down to things that creep,
In need of Ilithyia's holy rite,
May dare approach that consecrated steep,
Whose name of Rhea's birth-bed still Arcadians keep.

Fair was the promise of thy childhood's