Odes of Anacreon translated from the Greek, into English verse |
 |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XX. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| L. | L. GRAPES, OR THE VINTAGE. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LXII. |
| LXVI. |
 | Odes of Anacreon |  |
87
L. GRAPES, OR THE VINTAGE.
(By Dr. Broome.)
Io! the vintage now is done!
And purpled with th' autumnal sun:
The grapes gay youths and virgins bear,
The sweetest product of the year!
In vats the heavenly load they lay,
And swift the damsels trip away:
The youths alone the wine-press tread,
For wine's by skilful drunkards made.
And purpled with th' autumnal sun:
The grapes gay youths and virgins bear,
The sweetest product of the year!
In vats the heavenly load they lay,
And swift the damsels trip away:
The youths alone the wine-press tread,
For wine's by skilful drunkards made.
Meantime the mirthful song they raise,
Io! Bacchus, to thy praise!
And viewing the bless'd juice, in thought
Quaff an imaginary draught.
Gaily through wine the old advance,
And doubly tremble in the dance:
In fancied youth they chant and play,
Forgetful that their locks are gray.
Io! Bacchus, to thy praise!
And viewing the bless'd juice, in thought
Quaff an imaginary draught.
Gaily through wine the old advance,
And doubly tremble in the dance:
In fancied youth they chant and play,
Forgetful that their locks are gray.
89
Through wine the youth completes his loves;
He haunts the silence of the groves:
Where stretch'd beneath the' embowering shade,
He sees some love-inspiring maid;
On beds of rosy sweets she lies,
Inviting sleep to close her eyes:
Fast by her side his limbs he throws,
Her hand he presses—breathes his vows;
And cries, ‘My love, my soul, comply
This instant, or alas! I die.’
In vain the youth persuasion tries!
In vain!—her tongue at least denies:
Then, scorning death through dull despair,
He storms th' unwilling willing fair;
Blessing the grapes that could dispense
The happy, happy impudence.
He haunts the silence of the groves:
Where stretch'd beneath the' embowering shade,
He sees some love-inspiring maid;
On beds of rosy sweets she lies,
Inviting sleep to close her eyes:
Fast by her side his limbs he throws,
Her hand he presses—breathes his vows;
And cries, ‘My love, my soul, comply
This instant, or alas! I die.’
In vain the youth persuasion tries!
In vain!—her tongue at least denies:
Then, scorning death through dull despair,
He storms th' unwilling willing fair;
Blessing the grapes that could dispense
The happy, happy impudence.
| Odes of Anacreon | |