Thine is no kingly dignity. Thy brow
Wears not so poor a wreath.—The sacred glow
And majesty of freedom beam around thee there—
Her laurel crown is thine—no other would’st thou wear.
She knows thee, her lov’d worshiper. To guard her shrine
No truer arm the sword has bared, high chief, than thine.
’Tis well to think of thee—thy immortality how won,
Tried warrior, statesman, father, Washington.
Ione.
GREEK ANTHOLOGY.—No. 1.
Reader! hast thou seen the Greek Anthology? If not, go get it. ’Tis passing beautiful. Dost thou wish to see into the very heart of the finest people God ever made? Dost thou long to acquaint thee with the real character of the bright-souled Grecian? Then lay upon the shelf the fiery Homer, with his “damnable iteration,” and even the neat Xenophon—the soldier, historian, and philosopher. Lay them aside, I bid thee, and run thine eye gently over those little heart-bursts, to which chance gave being, and which chance has most marvellously preserved. Dost thou look to see the true proportions of the actor, as he “struts his brief hour upon the busy stage?” Go to the green-room, and behold him divested of all the super-imposed grandeur of cork and buskin. Dost thou think to know men, by scanning them, as they thread the streets of the city, as they toil in the heat of the forum, or pray among the pillars of the temple? The smile is, indeed, gracious—the bow lowly—the look subdued. But, man, you see the face, not the heart. They are all masquerading—most ludicrously too. Go to their homes, my friend. Watch them by their fire-sides—with their wives and children—in their household familiarity. Vexings are upon them, and their hearts are troubled. The world—the censorious world is far away, and they fear not the scrutiny of its prying eyes. A cloud comes over the sunshine of the soul, and they fret and fume at their petty tribulations. And are these those unctuous men, on whose faces sat enthroned such unruffled peace? Yea, verily!
Thou mayest think this an impertinent digression; but I made it, and I best know its design. ’Tis merely a rambling illustration—a stroll through the woods instead of a prosing walk along the road. ’Tis a similitude, I say—too long—yet a good one. Its pith is this. The poets, orators, philosophers, and historians—in fine, all the great authors dressed for court, or—if that term seem too monarchical for the Republic of Letters—they dressed for a levee—a democratic jam—they rouged, frizzled, combed, brushed, and bedizened themselves artificially. Homer, the oldest, is likewise the simplest of them all. But even he knew that he was stared at, and, like a man in company, adjusted his neckoloth, felt queer, and walked stiff. He does not give his own sentiments—he was writing a history of his nation, and it was at once his interest and his pleasure, to gild each slightest incident, and turn poverty to splendor. Thus does he show us about as much of the real character of those simple people in that early age, as do the roundelays of chivalry acquaint us with the habits of those motley knights, whose loves they celebrate, and whose prowess they record. It is not, then, in the elaborate writers of any nation, that you are to look for faithful portraitures of that nation’s character. Great geniuses bear the same leading traits in all climates, and their works are simple mental creations, rather than copies of the habits of their age. ’Tis familiarity with the various effusions of a thousand different pens—drinking from the heart’s overflowing fullness,—that thoroughly acquaints one with a people.
Reader, I am weary of these remarks, as I doubt not thou art. Therefore will I cease. And here would I advertise thee that I travel more for my own pleasure than for thine. My path lies through a lovely country, and I shall walk, run, halt, refresh, whenever and wherever I think proper. I shall take the cross-roads—rove through the green fields—lie under the shady trees—and drink of the cool springs. If thou wilt wander with me, it is well, and I trust our trip will be a merry one. It is my design to do into English—as we may aptly express such barbarous usage—some of the Anthology—to transplant and naturalize among our northern rocks some of those rare and beautiful exotics. The soil is cold, and the clime rude—yet, with thy fostering care, and sunny smiles, the flowers may grow. And if, thus roughly torn from their warm home, they seem pale and sickly, have the justice, kind reader, to believe that they were beautiful—yea! most beautiful. The blame be on the unskillful hand that removed them from their own sunny Greece—the garden, where they bloomed. Thou knowest that the Syrian olive would be but a stinted thing among the snows of Greenland, even though “with cost, and care, and warmth, induced to shoot.” Perchance my efforts may not be entirely without their value, since those, who have drunk with thirsty fervor at the fountain, my awkward paraphrase will only send back to their “first love” with renewed devotion, while that Sun of Poetry, which, though “shorn of his beams,” will not, I trust, have lost all “his original brightness,” will, in others, enkindle a holy ardor to climb the “Aonian mount,” and gaze full on his unclouded splendor.
First of all, let me present thee with a glorious song—I mean glorious in its primal sky of Greece, before my dull northern disc transmitted its beams, dimmed and diminished. It is an ode to two tyrannicidal brothers, Aristogeiton and Harmodius, who, at the Panathenian festival of Minerva, concealing swords in the myrtle branches borne on that occasion, attacked Hipparchus, and by his death regained their country’s freedom. It was sung by the Greeks at their entertainments. It has been Anglicised frequently, but its simple beauty, and deep enthusiasm, defy all translation.
In branch of myrtle will I bear the sword,
As did Harmodius of old,
When slew he Athens’ tyrant-lord,
And, with his brother bold,
Armed in his country’s cause,
Preserved her equal laws.
Dearest Harmodius! thou art not dead;
But in the islands of the bless’d thou art,
Where swift Achilles rests his weary head,
And brave Tydides calms his stormy heart.