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Over a part of the Delaware, opposite Philadelphia.

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VOL. XII.

THE PORT FOLIO,

CONDUCTED BY OLIVER OLDSCHOOL, ESQ.

Various, that the mind

Of desultory man, studious of change

And pleased with novelty, may be indulged.-Cowper.

DECEMBER, 1821.

ART. I.-Memoirs of Anacreon; By J. E. Hall.
(Continued from page 245.)

THE fate of Anyta, another of the companions of Sappho, was not less melancholy. She had attained such a rank among the poets of her time, that she was saluted with the distinguished title of the female Homer. She was betrothed in marriage to Antipater. But death robbed the Thessalonican of a wife and Greece lost one of its brightest ornaments, while her days were yet few and her thoughts were unclouded by care. Her compositions were sublime, beautiful and picturesque. I regret that I have preserved so few of her effusions. The following lines were written by her to be inscribed

VOL. XII.

ON A STATUE OF VENUS ON THE SEA COAST.

Cythera, from this craggy steep,

Looks downward on the glassy deep;

And hither calls the vernal gale
Propitious to the distant sail,
While ocean flows beneath serene

Sooth'd by the smiles of beauty's queen.

No. II.

The following epigrams were occasioned by the death of two of her young companions whom she tenderly loved.

ON PHILLIDA.

In this sad tomb where Phillida is laid,
Her mother oft invokes the gentle shade.
32

And calls, in hopeless grief, on her who died,
In the full bloom of youth and beauty's pride.
Who left, a virgin, these bright realms of day,
On dark Acheron's gloomy coasts to stray.

ON ANTIBIA.

Unblest Antibia calls this mournful strain-
A lovelier maid than all Diana's train.
Gay gallant youths ador'd her as their God
And noble suitors waited on her nod;

But to resist the pow'r of fate, how vain
Is beauty? Flow afresh my mournful strain!

While the sensibility of Sappho was bewailing the loss of two of the most lovely in her train, Anacreon endeavoured to console the unfortunate lover of Anyta by an ode, which he sung as he presented to him a cup of sparkling wine:

TO ANTIPATER.

Within a goblet, rich and deep,

I cradle all my woes to sleep,

Why should we breathe the sigh of fear,

Or pour the unavailing tear?

For death will never heed the sigh,

Nor soften at the tearful eye;

And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep,
Must all alike be sealed in sleep;

Then let us never vainly stray,

In search of thorns, from pleasure's way;

Oh! let us quaff the rosy wave,

Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave;

And in the goblet, rich and deep,
Cradle our crying woes to sleep!

The brevity of life is a subject so trite, that it would be superfluous in me to dilate upon its melancholy effects in the breasts of those who survive an early friend. Mimnermus, in common with many of our posts, has urged it, as a forcible reason for hilarity; and his strains, though lively enough for the mirth of the bacchant,

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