And, many an hour beguiled by pleasure, And many an hour of sorrow numbering, I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure

I left within thy bosom slumbering.

Perhaps, indifference has not chill'd it,
Haply, it yet a throb may give—
Yet no-perhaps, a doubt has kill'd it,
Oh, Cara!-does the infant live?

TO CARA,

ON THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR'S DAY.

WHEN midnight came to close the year,
We sigh to think it thus should take
The hours it gave us-hours as dear

As sympathy and love could make
Their blessed moments! every sun
Saw us, my love, more closely one!

But, Cara, when the dawn was nigh
Which came another year to shed,
The smile we caught from eye to eye

Told us those moments were. not fled; Oh no!-we felt, some future sun Should see us still more closely one!

Thus may we ever, side by side,
From happy years to happier glide;
And still, my Cara, may the sigh

We give to hours that vanish o'er us,
Be follow'd by the smiling eye
That Hope shall shed on scenes before us.

TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

THEY try to persuade me, my dear little sprite,
That you are not a daughter of ether and light,
Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms
That dance upon rainbows and ride upon storms;
That, in short, you 're a woman; your lip and your breast
As mortal as ever were tasted or press'd!

But I will not believe them-no, Science! to you
I have long bid a last and a careless adieu :
Still flying from Nature to study her laws,
And dulling delight by exploring its cause,
You forget how superior, for mortals below,

Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.
Oh! who, that has ever had rapture complete,
Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet!
How rays are confused, or how particles fly
Through the medium refined of a glance or a sigh!

Is there one, who but once would not rather have known it,

Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?
No, no-but for you, my invisible love,

I will swear you are one of those spirits that rove
By the bank where at twilight the poet reclines,
When the star of the west on his solitude shines,
And the magical fingers of Fancy have hung
Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue!
Oh! whisper him then, 't is retirement alone
Can hallow his harp or ennoble its tone;
Like you, with a veil of seclusion between,
His song to the world let him utter unseen,

And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres,
Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears!
Sweet spirit of mystery! how I should love,
In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove,
To have you for ever invisibly nigh,
Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh!
'Mid the crowds of the world and the murmurs of care,
I might sometimes converse with my nymph of the air,
And turn with disgust from the clamorous crew,
To steal in the pauses one whisper from you.

Oh! come and be near me, for ever be mine,
We shall hold in the air a communion divine,
As sweet as, of old, was imagined to dwell
In the grotto of Numa, or Socrates' cell.
And oft, at those lingering moments of night,
When the heart is weigh'd down and the eyelid is light,
You shall come to my pillow and tell me of love,
Such as angel to angel might whisper above!
Oh spirit!—and then, could you borrow the tone
Of that voice, to my ear so bewitchingly known,
The voice of the one upon earth, who has twined
With her essence for ever my heart and my mind!
Though lonely and far from the light of her smile,
And exile and weary and hopeless the while,
Could you shed for a moment that voice on my ear,
I will think at that moment my Cara is near,

That she comes with consoling enchantment to speak,
And kisses my eyelid and sighs on my cheek,
And tells me, the night shall go rapidly by,
For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven is nigh!
Sweet spirit! if such be your magical power,
It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour;
And let Fortune's realities frown as they will,
Hope, Fancy, and Cara may smile for me still!

PEACE AND GLORY.

WRITTEN AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE PRESENT WAR.

WHERE is now the smile that lighten'd

Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope that brighten'd

Honour's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior men?

Is the faithless olive faded?

Must the bay be pluck'd again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,

Lovely, in your light awhile, Peace and Glory, wed together,

Wander'd through the blessed isle. And the eyes of Peace would glisten, Dewy as a morning sun,

When the timid maid would listen To the deeds her chief had done.

Is the hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover
To the desert's still retreat!
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymph so fair and guest so bright;
Yet the smile, with which you vanish,
Leaves behind a soothing light!

A BALLAD.

THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP.

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK IN VIRGINIA.

They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in bis ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses. » — Anon. La Poésie a ses monstres comme la Nature.-D'ALEMBERT.

To be the theme of every hour
The heart devotes to Fancy's power,
When her soft magic fills the mind

With friends and joys we 've left behind,
And joys return and friends are near,
And all are welcomed with a tear!
In the mind's purest seat to dwell,
To be remember'd oft and well

By one whose heart, though vain and wild,
By passion led, by youth beguiled,

Can proudly still aspire to know
The feeling soul's divinest glow!
If thus to live in every part

Of a lone weary wanderer's heart;
If thus to be its sole employ

Can give thee one faint gleam of joy,
Believe it, Mary! oh! believe
A tongue that never can deceive,
When passion doth not first betray
And tinge the thought upon its way!
In pleasure's dream or sorrow's hour,
In crowded hall or lonely bower,
The business of my life shall be,
For ever, to remember thee!

And though that heart be dead to mine,
Since love is life and wakes not thine,
I'll take thy image, as the form
Of something I should long to warm,
Which, though it yield no answering thrill,
Is not less dear, is lovely still!
I'll take it, wheresoe'er I stray,
The bright, cold burthen of my way!
To keep this semblance fresh in bloom,
My heart shall be its glowing tomb,
And love shall lend his sweetest care,
With memory to embalm it there!

SONG.

TAKE back the sigh, thy lips of art
In passion's moment breathed to me;
Yet, no-it must not, will not part,
'T is now the life-breath of my heart,

And has become too pure for thee!
Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh
With all the warmth of truth imprest;

Yet, no-the fatal kiss may lie,
Upon thy lip its sweets would die,

Or bloom to make a rival blest!

Take back the vows that, night and day,
My heart received, I thought, from thine;
Yet, no-allow them still to stay,
They might some other heart betray,

As sweetly as they' ve ruin'd mine!

THEY made her a grave, too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;

And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,'
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,

She paddles her white canoe.

And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear; Long and loving our life shall be, And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, When the footstep of Death is near!.

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds—
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen, where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before!

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,

He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venomous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried,,from his dream awake,
Oh! when shall I see the dusky Lake,
And the white canoe of my dear?

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface play'd—
Welcome, he said, my dear one's light!
And the dim shore echoed, for many a night,
The name of the death-cold maid!

Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore;

Far he follow'd the meteor spark,

The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat return'd no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true

Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp,
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!

The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond.

EPISTLE III.

TO THE

MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF D--LL.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

LADY, where'er you roam, whatever beam
Of bright creation warms your mimic dream;
Whether you trace the valley's golden meads,
Where mazy Linth his lingering current leads;'
Enamour'd catch the mellow hues that sleep,
At eve, on Meillerie's immortal steep;
Or, musing o'er the Lake, at day's decline,
Mark the last shadow on the holy shrine, 2
Where, many a night, the soul of Tell complains
Of Gallia's triumph and Helvetia's chains;
Oh! lay the pencil for a moment by,
Turn from the tablet that creative eye,
And let its splendour, like the morning ray
Upon a shepherd's harp, illume my lay!

Yet, Lady! no-for song so rude as mine,
Chase not the wonders of your dream divine;
Still, radiant eye! upon the tablet dwell;
Still, rosy finger! weave your pictured spell;
And, while I sing the animated smiles
Of fairy nature in these sun-born isles,
Oh! might the song awake some bright design,
Inspire a touch, or prompt one happy line,
Proud were my soul to see its humble thought
On painting's mirror so divinely caught,
And wondering Genius, as he lean'd to trace
The faint conception kindling into grace,
Might love my numbers for the spark they threw,
And bless the lay that lent a charm to you!

eye,

Have you not oft, in nightly vision, stray'd
To the pure isles of ever-blooming shade,
Which bards of old, with kindly magic, placed
For happy spirits in the Atlantic waste? 3
There, as eternal gales, with fragrance warm,
Breathed from Elysium through each shadowy form
In eloquence of and dreams of song,
They charm'd their lapse of nightless hours along!
Nor yet in song that mortal ear may suit,
For every spirit was itself a lute,
Where Virtue waken'd, with elysian breeze,
Pure tones of thought and mental harmonies!
Believe me, Lady, when the zephyrs bland
Floated our bark to this enchanted land,
These leafy isles upon the ocean thrown,
Like studs of emerald o'er a silver zone;
Not all the charm that ethnic fancy gave
To blessed arbours o'er the western wave,
Could wake a dream more soothing or sublime,
Of bowers ethereal and the spirit's clime!

'Lady D., I supposed, was at this time still in Switzerland, where the powers of her pencil must have been frequently awakened. 2 The chapel of William Tell, on the Lake of Lucerne.

3 M. GEBELIN says, in his Monde Primitif, Lorsque Strabon crut que les anciens théologiens et poetes plaçaient les Champs Elysées dans les Isles de l'Océan Atlantique, il n'entendit rien à leur doctrine. M. GEBELIN'S supposition, I have no doubt, is the more correct: but that of STRABO is, in the present instance, most to my pur

pose.

The morn was lovely, every wave was still,
When the first perfume of a cedar-hill
Sweetly awaked us, and with smiling charms
The fairy harbour woo'd us to its arms.'
Gently we stole before the languid wind,
Through plantain shades that like an awning twined,
And kiss'd on either side the wanton sails,
Breathing our welcome to these vernal vales;
While far reflected, o'er the wave serene,
Each wooded island sheds so soft a green,
That the enamour'd keel, with whispering play,
Through liquid herbage seem'd to steal its way!
Never did weary bark more sweetly glide,
Or rest its anchor in a lovelier tide!
Along the margin many a brilliant dome,
White as the palace of a Lapland gnome,
Brighten'd the wave; in every myrtle grove
Secluded bashful, like a shrine of love,
Some elfin mansion sparkled through the shade;
And, while the foliage interposing play'd,
Wreathing the structure into various grace,
Fancy would love in many a form to trace
The flowery capital, the shaft, the porch, 2
And dream of temples, till her kindling torch
Lighted me back to all the glorious days
Of Attic genius; and I seem'd to gaze
On marble, from the rich Pentelic mount,.
Gracing the umbrage of some Naiad's fount.
Sweet airy being!3 who, in brighter hours,
Lived on the perfume of these honey'd bowers,
In velvet buds, at evening loved to lie,
And win with music every rose's sigh!
Though weak the magic of my humble strain
To charm your spirit from its orb again,
Yet, oh! for her, beneath whose smile I sing,
For her (whose pencil, if your rainbow wing
Were dimm'd or ruffled by a wintry sky,
Could smooth its feather and relume its dye),
A moment wander from your starry sphere,
And if the lime-tree grove that once was dear,
The sunny wave, the bower, the breezy hill,
The sparkling grotto, can delight you still,
Oh! take their fairest tint, their softest light,
Weave all their beauty into dreams of night,
And, while the lovely artist slumbering lies,
Shed the warm picture o'er her mental eyes;
Borrow for sleep her own creative spells,
And brightly show what song but faintly tells!

Nothing can be more romantic than the little harbour of St George. The number of beautiful islets, the singular clearness of the water, and the animated play of the graceful little boats, gliding for ever between the islands, and seeming to sail from one cedargrove into another, form altogether the sweetest miniature of nature that can be imagined.

2 This is an illusion which, to the few who are fanciful enough to indulge in it, renders the scenery of Bermuda particularly interesting. In the short but beautiful twilight of their spring evenings, the white cottages scattered over the islands, and but partially seen through the trees that surround them, assume often the appearance of little Grecian temples, and fancy may embellish the poor fisherman's hut with columns which the pencil of Claude might imitate. I had one favourite object of this kind in my walks, which the hospitality of its owner robbed me of, by asking me to visit him. He was a plain good man, and received me well and warmly, but I never could turn his house into a Grecian temple again.

3 Ariel. Among the many charms which Bermuda has for a poetic eye, we cannot for an instant forget that it is the scene of SHAKSPEARE's Tempest, and that here he conjured up the delicate Ariel, who alone is worth the whole heaven of ancient mythology.

THE GENIUS OF HARMONY.

AN IRREGULAR ODE.

Ad harmoniam canere murdum.
CICERO, de Nat. Deor. lib. 3.

THERE lies a shell beneath the waves

In many a hollow winding wreathed,
Such as of old,

Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;

This magic shell

From the white bosom of a syren fell,

As once she wander'd by the tide that laves Sicilia's sand of gold.

It bears

Upon its shining side, the mystic notes

Of those entrancing airs 1

The Genii of the deep were wont to swell,

When Heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music roll'd! Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats;

And, if the power

Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,
Go, bring the bright shell to my bower,
And I will fold thee in such downy dreams,
As lap the spirit of the seventh sphere,
When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear!1
And thou shalt own,

That, through the circle of creation's zone,
Where matter darkles or where spirit beams;
From the pellucid tides, 3 that whirl
The planets through their maze of song,
To the small rill, that weeps along

Murmuring o'er beds of pearl;

In the Histoire naturelle des Antilles, there is an account of some curious shells, found at Curaçoa, on the back of which were lines, filled with musical characters so distinct and perfect, that the writer assures us a very charming trio was sung from one of them. On le nomme musical, parce qu'il porte sur le dos de lignes noiratres pleines de notes, qui ont une espèce de clé pour les mettre en chant, de sorte que l'on dirait qu'il ne manque que la lettre à cette tablature naturelle. Ce curieux gentilhomme (M. du Montel) rapporte qu'il en a vu qui avaient cinq lignes, une clé, et des notes, qui formaient un accord parfait. Quelqu'un y avait ajouté la lettre, que la nature avait oubliée, et la faisait chanter en forme de trio, The author adds, dont l'air était fort agréable. Chap. 19, art. 11. a poet might imagine that these shells were used by the Syrens at their concerts.

#

According to CICERO, and his commentator, MACROBIUS, the lunar tone is the gravest and faintest on the planetary beptachord. «Quam ob causam summus ille cœli stellifer cursus, cujus conversio est concitation, acuto et excitato movetur sono; gravissimo autem hic lunaris atque infimus. Somu. Scip. Because, says MACROBIUS, << spirita ut in extremitate languescente jam volvitur, et propter angustias quibus penultimus orbis arctatur impetu leniore convertitur.» In Somn. Scip. lib. 2. cap. 4. It is not very easy to understand the ancients in their musical arrangement of the heavenly bodies. S00

PTOLEM. lib. 3.

3 LEUCIPPUS, the atomist, imagined a kind of vortices in the hea

From the rich sigh

Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,'
To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields
On Afric's burning fields;

Oh! thou shalt own this universe divine
Is mine!

That I respire in all and all in me,

One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony!

Welcome, welcome, mystic shell!
Many a star has ceased to burn, 3
Many a tear has Saturn's urn

O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, 4
Since thy aerial spell

Hath in the waters slept!

I fly,

With the bright treasure to my choral sky,
Where she, who waked its early swell,

The syren, with a foot of fire,

Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre, 5
Or guides around the burning pole

The winged chariot of some blissful soul!6
While thou!

Oh, son of earth! what dream shall rise for thee;
Beneath Hispania's sun,

Thou 'It see a streamlet run,

Which I have warm'd with dews of melody; 7
Listen!-when the night wind dies
Down the still current, like a harp it sighs!
A liquid chord is every wave that flows,
An airy plectrum every breeze that blows!8
There, by that wondrous stream,
Go, lay thy languid brow,

HERACLIDES, upon the allegories of HOMER, conjectures that the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this poet, who, in representing the solar beams as arrows, supposes them to emit a peculiar sound in the air.

In the account of Africa which D'ABLANCOURT has translated there is mention of a tree in that country, whose branches when shaken by the hand produce very sweet sounds. Le même auteur (ABENZEGAR) dit, qu'il y a un certain arbre, qui produit des gaules comme d'o ier, et qu'en les prenant à la main et les branlant, elles font une espèce d'harmonie fort agréable, etc. etc.-L'Afrique de

MARMOL.

Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, of some of those fixed stars, which we are taught to consider as suns, attended each by its sys em. DESCARTES thought that our earth might formerly have been a sun, which became obscured by a thick inc ustation over its surface. This probably suggested the idea of a central fire.

4 PORPHYRY says, that PYTHAGORAS held the sea to be a tear. — Thy Sadattav pey exxdet eival caxpuav. De Vit. And some one else, if I mistake not, has added the Planet Saturn as the source of it. EMPEDOCLES, with similar affectation, called the sea the sweat of the earth: ίδρωτα της γης. See RITTERSHUMUS upon PORPHYRY, Num. 4..

The system of the harmonised orbs was styled by the ancients the Great Lyre of Orpheus, for which Lucian accounts, de λupn ἑπταμιτος εουτα την των κινουμένων ας των αρμονιαν σuv6zλλɛto. x. T. λ. in Astrolog.

6 Διειλε ψυχας ισαριθμούς τους αςροις, ένειμε τ' εκας ην προς εκαςον, και εμβιβάσας ΩΣ ΕΙΣ ΟΧΗΜΑ. PLATON. Timaus.

7 This musical river is mentioned in the romance of Achilles Tatius.

Επει ποταμού ην δε ακούσαι θέλης του ύδατος aλouvros. The Latin version, in supplying the hiatus which is in the original, has placed the river in Hispania. In Hispania quoque fluvius est, quem primo aspectu, etc. etc.

These two lines are translated from the words of Achilles Tatius.

Εαν γαρ ολίγος ανεμος εις τας δίνας έμπεση, το μεν

to DESCARTES.

πλήκτρον γίνεται. το ρευμα δε ὡς κιθαρα λαλει. Lib. 2.

From which his soul had drunk its fire!
Oh! think what visions, in that lonely hour,
Stole o'er his musing breast!
What pious ecstasy 4

Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power,
Whose seal upon this world imprest 5
The various forms of bright divinity!

Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove,
'Mid the deep horror of that silent bower, 6
Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber?
When, free

From every earthly chain,

From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain,
His spirit flew through fields above,

Drank at the source of Nature's fontal number. 7
And saw, in mystic choir, around him move
The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy!
Such dreams, so heavenly bright,

EPISTLE IV.

TO GEORGE MORGAN, ESQ.

OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA.' FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804.

Κείνη δ' ηνεμόεσσα και Ατροπος, δια θ' αλιπληξ, αιθύτης και μάλλον επιδρομος πεπερ ίπποις, ποντω ενεςηρίκται.

CALLIMACH. Hymn. in Del. v. 11.

On what a tempest whirl'd us hither! 2
Winds, whose savage breath could wither
All the light and languid flowers
That bloom in Epicurus' bowers!
Yet think not, George, that Fancy's charm
Forsook me in this rude alarm.
When close they reef'd the timid sail,

When, every plank complaining loud,
We labour'd in the midnight gale,

And even our haughty main-mast bow'd! The muse, in that unlovely hour, Benignly brought her soothing power, And, 'midst the war of waves and wind, In songs elysian lapp'd my mind!

She open'd, with her golden key,

The casket where my memory lays

Those little gems of poesy,

Which time has saved from ancient days! Take one of these, to LAIS sung,

I wrote it while my hammock swung,
As one might write a dissertation

Upon suspended animation!

SWEETLY 3 you kiss, my LAIs dear!

But, while you kiss, I feel a tear,

4 There are some verses of ORPHEUS preserved to us, which contain sublime ideas of the unity and magnificence of the Deity. As those which JUSTIN MARTYR has produced:

Ούτος μεν χαλκείον ες ουρανον εστήρικται Xpusetos eve Spovw, x. v. λ. Ad Græc. cohortat.

It is thought by some, that these are to be reckoned amongst the fabrications which were frequent in the early times of Christianity. Still it appears doubtful to whom we should impute them; they are too pious for the Pagans, and too poetical for the Fathers.

In one of the Hymns of ORPHEUS, be attributes a figured seal to Apollo, with which he imagines that deity to have stamped a variety of forms upon the universe.

Allading to the cave near Samos, where Pythagoras devoted the greater part of his days and nights to meditation and the mysteries of his philosophy. Jamblich, de Vit. This, as HOLSTENIUS remarks, was in imitation of the Magi.

7 The tetractys, or sacred number of the Pythagoreans, on which they solemnly swore, and which they called тяуXY KEYOU pussus, the fountain of perennial nature. LUCIAN has ridicaled this religious arithmetic very finely in his Sale of Philosophers, This diadem is intended to represent the analogy between the notes of music and the prismatic colours. We find in Plutarch a vague intimation of this kindred harmony in colours and sounds. Opts τε και αγον, μετά φωνης τε και φωτος την αρμονίαν De Musica. επιφαίνουσι.

CASSIODORUS, whose idea I may be supposed to have borrowed, says, in a letter upon music to Boetius, Ut diadema oculis, varia luce gemmarum, sic cythara diversitate soni, blanditur auditui. This is indeed the only tolerable thought in the letter. Lib. 2, Variar.

This gentleman is attached to the British consulate at Norfolk. Ilis talents are worthy of a much higher sphere, but the excellent

repose he enjoys amongst some of the kindest hearts in the world, should be almost enough to atone to him for the worst caprices of fortune. The consul himself, Colonel Hamilton, is one among the very few instances of a man, ardently loyal to his king, and yet beloved by the Americans. His house is the very temple of hospitality, and I sincerely pity the heart of that stranger who, warm from the welcome of such a board, and with the taste of such Madeira still upon his lips, « col dolce in bocca, could sit down to write a libel on his host, in the true spirit of a modern philosophist. See the Travels of the DUKE DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULT LIANCOURT, vol. 2.

2 We were seven days on our passage from Norfolk to Bermuda, during three of which we were forced to lay-to in a gale of wind. The Driver sloop of war, in which I went, was built at Bermoda of cedar, and is accounted an excellent sea-boat. She was then commanded by my very regretted friend Captain Compton, who in July last was killed aboard the Lilly, in an action with a French privaPoor Compton! be fell a victim to the strange impolicy of allowing such a miserable thing as the Lilly to remain in the service; so small, crank, and unmanageable, that a well-manned merchantman was at any time a match for her.

teer.

This epigram is by PACLES SILENTIARIUS, and may be found in the Analecta of Bruscs, vol. 3, p. 72. But as the reading there is somewhat different from what I have followed in this translation, I shall give it as I had it in my memory at the time, and as it is in HEINSIES, who, I believe, first produced the epigram. See his

Poemata.

Που μεν εστι φιλημα το Λαίδος που δε αυτών
Η πιοδινητων δακρυ χεείς βλεφάρων,
και πολυ κιχλίζουσα σοβείς ευβοστρυχον αιγλην
Ήμετερα κεφαλην δηρον ερεισάμενη.