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Poems

by the Rev. Mr. Cawthorn

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15

The 9th ODE of ANACREON.

ÆTAT. 15.
This rapid flight, through realms above,
Whence, whence, tak'st thou? O lovely dove!
Whence so much fragrance from thy bill
Dost breathe, and from thy wings distil,
Perfuming all the air around?—
And prithee whither art thou bound?
To Venus once I did belong,
Who sold me for a pretty song:
And now my office is, in brief,
Anacreon's messenger in chief.
Here from my neck, exposed to view,
Depends, thou seest, his billet-doux.
He said, when I set out, that he,
At my return, would set me free.

16

But should he then dismiss me straight,
Yet I will still upon him wait:
For what would it avail, that I
O'er mountains and o'er fields should fly:
And, on thick trees sublimely plac'd,
Take daily some poor wild repast?
Since now, by fond Anacreon fed,
From his own hand I pick my bread:
And of that wine delicious sip
Which just before had wet his lip.
My thirst then quench'd, my wings I spread,
And hover round my master's head:
And, when with sleep my eyelids close,
Upon his lyre I perch'd repose.
I've told thee all. Begone—I vow
Thou mak'st me prattle like a chough.