DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.30697#0014
6
COLLECTIONS.
[Florence; 1494.
the xivth century; who has been accused of having mutilated the
materials which lay before him, and of having- rejected, from bad
taste, many of the more exquisite pieces, which were happily restored
by Salmasius in the XVIIth century. Brunck has supplied many of
the deficiences which were obvious even in the labours of Salmasius ;
and has added other pieces,which, in turn, have been rejected by Jacobs,
the last and best editor of this truly interesting Collection. A Vatican
MS., now in the Imperial Library at Paris, is reported to contain yet
more authentie materials; and Mons. Chardon has g'iven an earnest of
the fruits which the public are likely to gather from his collation of this
MS. and from apublication of its contents. The foregoing intelligence
is supplied by a very interesting preface prefixed to a recent edition of
English Tiianslations from the Greek Anthology, 1813, 8vo.:* a
* By the Revd. Robert Bland, and others. Although it is most probable that this book
will be upon the shelf of every lover of ancient classical literatu re, I cannot refrain from
the gratification of extracting the original prologue, (perhaps a little out of place liere) and
two specimens of tlie version—the Iatter, rather indiscriminately selected.
PROLOGUE.
Thou little wreath, by Fancy twined
In summer’s sun and winter’s wind,
That thro’ an age of deepest gloom
Hast kept thy fragrance and thy bloom,
Tho’ now whole centuries have roll’d,
And nations, since thy birth, grown old,
Tho’ time have wither’d many a leaf,
And silent envy play’d the thief,
And clowns liave breathed in evil hour
A poison into thy sweet ssower,-
Yet dost thou live—nor tyrants’ rage
Hath nipt thee quite, nor wars, nor age.
Yet not, as once, the gentle earth
Thou dost adorn that gave thee birth,
Wlien, all unforced by pains and toil,
Wild shooting in thy native soil,
The sweetest buds that deck’d the land
Were pluck’d by Meleager’s hand,
Who curl’d Anacreon’s blushing vine
Around Erinne’s eglantine,
And Myro’s lilies cull’d, to shade
The roses of the Lesbian Maid,
And pluck’d the myrtle from thy grove,
Callimachus, the sprig of love.
With these my venturous hand shall wreathe
The baleful plants tliat sadly breathe,
COLLECTIONS.
[Florence; 1494.
the xivth century; who has been accused of having mutilated the
materials which lay before him, and of having- rejected, from bad
taste, many of the more exquisite pieces, which were happily restored
by Salmasius in the XVIIth century. Brunck has supplied many of
the deficiences which were obvious even in the labours of Salmasius ;
and has added other pieces,which, in turn, have been rejected by Jacobs,
the last and best editor of this truly interesting Collection. A Vatican
MS., now in the Imperial Library at Paris, is reported to contain yet
more authentie materials; and Mons. Chardon has g'iven an earnest of
the fruits which the public are likely to gather from his collation of this
MS. and from apublication of its contents. The foregoing intelligence
is supplied by a very interesting preface prefixed to a recent edition of
English Tiianslations from the Greek Anthology, 1813, 8vo.:* a
* By the Revd. Robert Bland, and others. Although it is most probable that this book
will be upon the shelf of every lover of ancient classical literatu re, I cannot refrain from
the gratification of extracting the original prologue, (perhaps a little out of place liere) and
two specimens of tlie version—the Iatter, rather indiscriminately selected.
PROLOGUE.
Thou little wreath, by Fancy twined
In summer’s sun and winter’s wind,
That thro’ an age of deepest gloom
Hast kept thy fragrance and thy bloom,
Tho’ now whole centuries have roll’d,
And nations, since thy birth, grown old,
Tho’ time have wither’d many a leaf,
And silent envy play’d the thief,
And clowns liave breathed in evil hour
A poison into thy sweet ssower,-
Yet dost thou live—nor tyrants’ rage
Hath nipt thee quite, nor wars, nor age.
Yet not, as once, the gentle earth
Thou dost adorn that gave thee birth,
Wlien, all unforced by pains and toil,
Wild shooting in thy native soil,
The sweetest buds that deck’d the land
Were pluck’d by Meleager’s hand,
Who curl’d Anacreon’s blushing vine
Around Erinne’s eglantine,
And Myro’s lilies cull’d, to shade
The roses of the Lesbian Maid,
And pluck’d the myrtle from thy grove,
Callimachus, the sprig of love.
With these my venturous hand shall wreathe
The baleful plants tliat sadly breathe,