The following translations, parodies, and burlesque verses, most of them extempore, are taken from Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson, published by Mrs. Piozzi.

ANACREON, ODE IX.

Lovely courier of the sky,
Whence and whither dost thou fly? 
Scatt’ring, as thy pinions play,
Liquid fragrance all the way: 
Is it business? is it love? 
Tell me, tell me, gentle dove. 
Soft Anacreon’s vows I bear,
Vows to Myrtale the fair;
Grac’d with all that charms the heart,
Blushing nature, smiling art. 
Venus, courted by an ode,
On the bard her dove bestow’d: 
Vested with a master’s right,
Now Anacreon rules my flight;
His the letters that you see,
Weighty charge, consign’d to me: 
Think not yet my service hard,
Joyless task without reward;
Smiling at my master’s gates,
Freedom my return awaits;
But the lib’ral grant in vain
Tempts me to be wild again. 
Can a prudent dove decline
Blissful bondage such as mine? 
Over hills and fields to roam,
Fortune’s guest without a home;
Under leaves to hide one’s head
Slightly shelter’d, coarsely fed: 
Now my better lot bestows
Sweet repast and soft repose;
Now the gen’rous bowl I sip,
As it leaves Anacreon’s lip: 
Void of care, and free from dread,
From his fingers snatch his bread;
Then, with luscious plenty gay,
Round his chamber dance and play;
Or from wine, as courage springs,
O’er his face extend my wings;
And when feast and frolick tire,
Drop asleep upon his lyre. 
This is all, be quick and go,
More than all thou canst not know;
Let me now my pinions ply,
I have chatter’d like a pie.

LINES
WRITTEN IN RIDICULE OF CERTAIN POEMS
PUBLISHED IN 1777.

Wheresor’er I turn my view,
All is strange, yet nothing new;
Endless labour all along,
Endless labour to be wrong;
Phrase that time hath flung away,
Uncouth words in disarray,
Trick’d in antique ruff and bonnet,
Ode, and elegy, and sonnet.

PARODY OF A TRANSLATION.  FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES.

Err shall they not, who resolute explore
Times gloomy backward with judicious eyes;
And, scanning right the practices of yore,
Shall deem our hoar progenitors unwise.

They to the dome, where smoke, with curling play,
Announc’d the dinner to the regions round,
Summon’d the singer blithe, and harper gay,
And aided wine with dulcet-streaming sound.

The better use of notes, or sweet or shrill,
By quiv’ring string or modulated wind;
Trumpet or lyre—­to their harsh bosoms chill
Admission ne’er had sought, or could not find.

Oh! send them to the sullen mansions dun,
Her baleful eyes where sorrow rolls around;
Where gloom-enamour’d mischief loves to dwell,
And murder, all blood-bolter’d, schemes the wound.