Pindar and Anacreon/Anacreon/Ode 28

by Anacreon

ODE XXVIII.—ON HIS MISTRESS.^[1]

Best of painters, lend thy aid,
Draw the lines of light and shade;
Master of the Rhodian art,^[2]
Paint the charmer of my heart;

Absent though the maiden be,
Beauties I'll describe to thee,^[3]
Thou, undazzled, ne'er couldst see.
Paint her dark and glossy hair,
Flowing down her neck so fair:
Further yet I must presume,
Let it seem to breathe perfume.
Her iv'ry forehead next thy care,
Shining mid her jet-black hair;
Let thy utmost skill be seen
In the dainty space between,
Where by sable archers cross'd,
Where the less'ning shade is lost.
Let her liquid eye of fire,
Like Minerva's, awe inspire;
With Cytherea's softness too
Temper the celestial blue;

Paint her lovely cheek and nose,
Blending milk with blush of rose;
Paint her pretty, pouting lips,
Where the bee its honey sips,
Where Persuasion sits and smiles,
With a thousand winning wiles.
Every pleasing grace must deck
Her pretty dimpled chin and neck;
And let nameless beauties dwell
In her bosom's gentle swell.
In a thin and purple dress
Veil this form of loveliness:
Her body hide, her shape express.
Enough! no further proof I seek,
She lives—she breathes—soft! did she speak?

1. The version of this ode, first published in the Guardian, is adopted both by Addison and Fawkes; but however beautiful and spirited it may be thought, another translator, Mr. Girdlestone, shrewdly remarks, that no painter could make a beautiful picture from a description which leaves out the nose. In the original not a single feature is omitted; and therefore the version above mentioned must be defective.
2. The Rhodians were, according to Pindar, the first people acquainted with the arts of painting and sculpture.
3. To give the reader an opportunity of judging whether or not this picture be too highly drawn, I have transcribed the following passage from a work deservedly held in the highest estimation:—
   
   "The women, as I have intimated, are handsome; indeed, you rarely meet with an ugly face among them. The form of the head, the general cast of countenance, are classical; and in their profile I have frequently found that exquisite, gently curving line, we see in ancient Greek statues and medals, (and which we have been accustomed to consider the line of ideal beauty,) identified in 'real flesh and blood.' Their large, black eyes, with long lashes, and their delicately arched eyebrows; the latter, when not denaturalized and spoiled by the too common practice of dying them, are the finest I have ever seen."—M'Farlane's Constantinople, vol. i., p. 99. And again, "The Greek village of Panagea, situated on the seashore, to the south of Chesme, is celebrated for the beauty of its women; but throughout these regions the sex is universally handsome and graceful. Poverty, that cruel enemy to the charms of the person as well as of the mind, cannot destroy their attractions: the bright, intelligent, large black eye beams, the clear complexion, the exquisite Grecian nose, mouth, and chin, the classical contour, are there, in spite of its wrongs; and an innate grace of manner and motion develops itself through the covering of rags. I do not seek the recondite causes of this peculiarity; but, be it descent from a superior race, be it the soil and clime, such are the women of Ionia."—Ibid., p. 201.

   Perhaps the reader would be pleased to see a portrait of the "fair Ionian" in another light, by a master whose unrivalled pencil has left all competitors at an immeasurable distance:—

   "You see, this night
   Made warriors of more than me. I paused
   To look upon her, and her kindled cheek;
   Her large black eyes, that flash'd through her long hair
   As it stream'd o'er her; her blue veins, that rose
   Along her most transparent brow; her nostril
   Dilated from its symmetry; her lips
   Apart; her voice that clove through all the din,
   As a lute's pierceth through the cymbal's clash,
   Jarr'd but not drown'd by the loud brattling; her
   Waved arms, more dazzling with their own born whiteness
   Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up
   From a dead soldier's grasp; all these things made
   Her seem unto the troops a prophetess
   Of victory, or Victory herself,
   Come down to hail us hers."
   

   Lord Byron.—Sardanapalus, act 1, scene 1.