The works of Anacreon, Sappho, Bion, Moschus and Musæus

With Roses crown'd, on Flowers supinely laid,
Anacreon blithe the sprightly Lyre essay'd,
In light fantastic Measures beat the Ground,
Or dealt the mirth-inspiring Juice around:
No Care, no Thought, the tuneful Teian knew,
But mark'd with Bliss each Moment as it slew.
Progress of Poetry. By a Lady.

ODE I. ON HIS LYRE.

“Wake, O Lyre, thy silent Strings,
“Celebrate the Brother-Kings,
“Sons of Atreus, fam'd afar,
“Cadmus, and the Theban War.”—

Rapt I strike the vocal Shell—
Hark—the trembling Chords rebel;
All averse to Arms they prove,
Warbling only Strains of Love.

Late I strung anew my Lyre—
“Heav'nly Muse my Breast inspire,
“While the swelling Notes resound
“Hercules, for Toils renown'd.”
Still the Chords rebellious prove,
Answ'ring only Strains of Love!

Farewel Heroes, farewel Kings!
Love alone shall tune my Strings.

ODE III. CUPID BENIGHTED.

The sable Night had spread around
This nether World a Gloom profound;
No silver Moon nor Stars appear,
And strong Boötes urg'd the Bear:

The Race of Man, with Toils opprest
Enjoy'd the balmy Sweets of Rest;
When from the heav'nly Court of Jove
Descended swift the God of Love,
(Ah me! I tremble to relate)
And loudly thunder'd at my Gate.
“Who's there? I cry'd, Who breaks my Door
“At this unseasonable Hour?”
The God, with well dissembled Sighs,
And Moan insidious, thus replies:
“Pray ope the Door, dear Sir—'tis I,
“A harmless, miserable Boy;
“Benumm'd with Cold and Rain I stray
“A long, uncomfortable Way—

“The Winds with blust'ring Horror roar—
“'Tis dismal dark—Pray ope the Door.”

Quite unsuspicious of a Foe
I listen'd to the Tale of Woe,
Compassion touch'd my Breast, and strait
I struck a Light, unbarr'd the Gate;
When, lo! a winged Boy I spy'd
With Bow and Quiver at his Side:
I wonder'd at his strange Attire;
Then friendly plac'd him near the Fire.
My Heart was bounteous and benign,
I warm'd his little Hands in mine,
Chear'd him with kind assiduous Care,
And wrung the Water from his Hair.
Soon as the fraudful Youth was warm,
“Let's try, says he, if any Harm
“Has chanc'd my Bow this stormy Night;
“I fear the Wet has spoil'd it quite:”
With that he bent the fatal Yew,
And to the Head an Arrow drew;

Loud twang'd the sounding String, the Dart
Pierc'd thro' my Liver and my Heart.
Then laugh'd amain the wanton Boy,
And, “Friend, he cry'd, I wish thee Joy;
“Undamag'd is my Bow, I see,
“But what a Wretch I've made of thee!”

ODE IV. ON HIMSELF.

Reclin'd at ease on this soft Bed
With fragrant Leaves of Myrtle spread
And flow'ry Lote, I'll now resign
My Cares, and quaff the rosy Wine.
In decent Robe, behind him bound,
Cupid shall serve the Goblet round:
For fast away our Moments steal,
Like the swift Chariot's rolling Wheel:

The rapid Course is quickly done,
And soon the Race of Life is run;
Then, then, alas! we droop, we die,
And sunk in Dissolution lie;
Our Frame no Symmetry retains;
Nought but a little Dust remains.
Why on the Tomb are Odours shed?
Why pour'd Libations to the dead?

To me, far better, while I live,
Rich Wines and balmy Fragrance give;
Now, now, the rosy Wreath prepare,
And hither call the lovely Fair.

Now, while I draw my vital Breath,
Ere yet I lead the Dance of Death,
For Joy my Sorrows I'll resign,
And drown my Cares in rosy Wine.

ODE V. ON THE ROSE.

To make the Beverage divine
Mingle sweet Roses with the Wine;
Delicious will the Liquor prove,
For Roses are the Flowers of Love:

And while with Wreaths of Roses crown'd,
Let Laughter and the Cup go round.

Hail, lovely Rose! to thee I sing,
Thou sweetest Daughter of the Spring:
All Mortals prize thy Beauties bright;
In thee the Pow'rs above delight.
Gay Cupid, with the Graces bland,
When lightly bounding Hand in Hand,
With nimble Feet he beats the Ground,
Shows his bright Locks with Roses crown'd.
Here then the flow'ry Garland bring;
With Numbers sweet I'll wake the String,
And crown'd with Roses, heav'nly Flow'rs!
Admitted, Bacchus, to thy Bow'rs,

With snowy-bosom'd Sappho gay
I'll dance the feather'd Hours away.

ODE VI. THE PARTY OF PLEASURE.

While Roses round our Temples twine,
We'll gayly quaff the sparkling Wine:
And, lo! the love-alluring Fair
Her Thyrsus brandishes in Air,

With clust'ring Ivy wreath'd around
Whose Branches yield a rustling Sound;
With graceful Ease her Steps she suits
To Notes of soft Ionian Lutes.
A Youth, whose Hair luxuriant flows
In Curls, with Breath ambrosial blows
The well-pair'd Pipes, and, sweetly clear,
Pours melting Music on the Ear.
Here Cupid too with golden Hair,
And Bacchus, ever young and fair,

With Cytherea, who inspires
Delightful Thoughts and warm Desires,
Gay-smiling join the festive Train,
And make an old Man young again.

ODE VII. THE POWER OF LOVE.

Love, waving awful in his Hand
His Hyacinth-encircled Wand,
Forc'd me, averse, with him to run;
In vain I strove the Task to shun.
Swift o'er the Plain our Course we ply'd,
Thro' foaming Floods, o'er-Forests wide,

O'er Hills where Rocks impending hung,
Till me, alas! a Serpent stung:
Sore heav'd my Heart with dire Dismay,
My Spirits sunk—I dy'd away—
Pleas'd Cupid caught my trembling Hand,
My Face with his soft Pinions fann'd,
And cry'd, ‘Since now my Pow'r you prove,
‘Dare you still boast, you will not love?’

ODE VIII. THE DREAM.

As on a purple Bed supine,
Rapt in the pleasing Joys of Wine,
I lull'd my weary Limbs to Rest,
Methought, with Nymphs supremely blest,
A beauteous Band, I urg'd the Chace,
Contending in the rapid Race;
While fairest Youths, with Envy stung,
Fair as Lyæus ever young,
With jealous Leer, and bitter Jest,
Their keen Malevolence exprest.
Intent on Love, I strive to greet
The gamesome girls with Kisses sweet,

And, as on Pleasure's Brink I seem,
Wake, and, behold! 'tis all a Dream.
Vex'd to be thus alone in Bed,
My visionary Charmers fled,
To dream once more I close my Eyes;
Again, ye soft Illusions, rise!

ODE IX. THE DOVE.

“Tell me, dear, delightful Dove,
“Emblematic Bird of Love,
“On your wavering Wings descending,
“Whence you come, and whither tending?

“Tell me whence your snowy Plumes
“Breathe such Fragrance of Perfumes?
“And what Master you obey,
“Gentle Bird of Venus, say!”

“Blithe Anacreon, the wise,
“(Thus the feather'd Page replies)
“Sends me o'er the Meads and Groves
“To Bathyllus whom he loves,

“To Bathyllus, beauteous Boy,
“Men's Delight, and Maidens Joy.
“For a Sonnet terse and trim,
“Which the Poets call a Hymn,
“Venus, in her sweet Regard,
“Sold me to the gentle Bard:
“Happy in his easy Sway,
“All his Mandates I obey;
“Often through the Fields of Air
“Song or Billet-doux I bear.
“If you serve me well, says he,
“I will shortly make you free.
“He may free me, if he will,
“Yet I'll stay and serve him still:

“For what Comfort can I know
“On the Mountain's barren Brow?
“Or in Deserts left alone,
“There to murmur and to moan?
“Or in melancholy Wood,
“Pecking Berries, nauseous Food!
“Now I eat delicious Bread,
“By my liberal Master fed;
“Now I drink, of his own Bowl,
“Rosy Wine that chears my Soul;

“Sometimes dance, and sometimes play,
“Ever easy, ever gay;
“Or my fragrant Pinions spread,
“Hovering o'er my Master's Head:
“When my Limbs begin to tire,
“Then I perch upon his Lyre;
“Soothing Sounds my Eye-lids close,
“Sweetly lulling my Repose.

“Now I've told you all I know,
“Friend, adieu—'tis Time to go;
“You my Speed so long delay,
“I have chatter'd like a Jay.

ODE X. CUPID IN WAX.

A rustic brought, of curious Mold,
A waxen Cupid to be sold:
“What Price, I cry'd, ingenuous say,
“For this small Image shall I pay?”
“Small is the Price, reply'd the Clown,
“Take it, e'en take it at your own:
“To tell you all without a Lye,
“I make no Images, not I;
“But dare not in my Mansion trust
“This Patron of unbounded Lust.”
“If so, then for this little Coin,
“Said I, the Deity is mine.

“And now, great God, my Breast inspire,
“There kindle all thy gentle Fire:
“But, if thou fail'st to favour me,
“I swear I'll make a Fire of thee.”

ODE XII. ON A SWALLOW.

Say, chattering Bird, that dar'st invade
My Slumbers with thy Serenade,
And steal'st my visionary Bliss,
How shall I punish thee for this?
Say, shall I clip thy soaring Wing;
Or, like stern Tereus, Thracian King,
To Swallows Name of dire Dismay,
Tear by the Roots thy Tongue away?

For, with thy execrable Scream,
Thou wak'st me from a golden Dream,

And from my Arms hast snatch'd away
Phyllis the fair, the young, the gay.

ODE XIII. ON ATYS.

As o'er the Mountains, o'er the Plains,
Unmanly Atys, in loud Strains
Great Cybele invoking, mourn'd,
His Love to sudden Madness turn'd.

Some to the Clarian Fountain throng
Of laurel'd Phœbus, God of Song,

And, with prophetic Draughts inspir'd,
Enraptur'd rave, with Frenzy fir'd;
I too, inspir'd with generous Wine,
While round me breathe Perfumes divine,
And with fair Chloe blest, will prove
The sweetest Madness—Wine and Love.

ODE XIV. LOVE IRRESISTIBLE.

Yes, I yield—thy sovereign Sway,
Mighty Cupid, I'll obey.
Late with soft persuasive Art
Love essay'd to win my Heart:
I, inflam'd with rebel Pride,
His Omnipotence defy'd—
With revengeful fury stung,
Strait his Bow he bent, he strung,
Snatch'd an Arrow wing'd for Flight,
And provok'd me to the Fight:
I, disdaining base Retreat,
Clad in radiant Arms compleat,

Like Achilles, boldly wield
Glittering Spear, and ample Shield;
Thus equipt, resolve to prove
The terrific Power of Love.

From his Bow the Arrows sped;
I, alas! inglorious fled—
When the Quiver at his Side
Feather'd Shafts no more supply'd,

Love, transform'd into a Dart,
Pierc'd, like Light'ning, thro' my Heart,
Of my Vitals made his Prey,
And dissolv'd my Soul away.
Now, alas! in vain I wield
Glittering Spear, and ample Shield,
Victory in vain dispute,
Love, I find, is absolute;

All Defence to Folly turns
When within the Battle burns.

ODE XVII. THE SILVER BOWL.

Mulciber , this Silver take,
And a curious Goblet make;
Let thy utmost Skill appear
Not in radiant Armour there;
Let me there no Battles see;
What are Arms or Wars to me?
Form it with a noble Sweep,
Very wide, and very deep.
Carve not there the northern Team,
Nor Orion's dreadful Beam;

Pleiads, Hyads, Bears displease;
What have I to do with these?
Why should slow Boötes roll,
Why should horrid Monsters prowl,
On the Margin of my Bowl?
Draw me, what I value more,
Vines with purple Clusters Store,
Bacchus ever young and fair,
Cupid with the golden Hair,
Gay Bathyllus too be there.
See that, beautiful and bold,
All these Figures rise in Gold:
In the Wine-press let them join
Hand in Hand to tread the Wine.

ODE XVIII. ON THE SAME.

[Contrive me, Artisan, a Bowl]

Contrive me, Artisan, a Bowl
Of Silver ample as my Soul;
And in the bright Compartments bring
The sweet Profusion of the Spring;
Let that fair Season, rich in Flowers,
Shed Roses in ambrosial Showers;
Yet simply plain be thy Design,
A festive Banqueting of Wine;
No Hieroglyphics let it have,
No foreign Mysteries engrave:
Let no blood-thirsty Heroes wield
Rough Armour in the silver Field;
But draw me Jove's delightful Boy,
Paschus the God of Wine and Joy:
Let Venus with light Step advance,
And with gay Hymen lead the Dance.

Beneath the Leaf-embellish'd Vine,
Full of young Grapes that promise Wine,
Let Love, without his Armour meet
The meek-ey'd Graces laughing sweet.
And on the polish'd Plain display
A Group of beauteous Boys at Play;
But no Apollo, God of Day,

ODE XIX. WE OUGHT TO DRINK.

The thirsty Earth sucks up the Showers
Which from his Urn Aquarius pours;
The Trees, which wave their Boughs profuse,
Imbibe the Earth's prolific Juice;
The Sea, in his prodigious Cup,
Drinks all the Rain and Rivers up;
The Sun too thirsts, and strives to drain
The Sea, the Rivers, and the Rain,

And nightly, when his Course is run,
The merry Moon drinks up the Sun.

Then give me Wine, and tell me why,
My Friends, should all Things drink but I?

ODE XXI. SUMMER.

Fill, fill, sweet Girls, the foaming Bowl,
And let me gratify my Soul:
I faint with Thirst—the Heat of Day
Has drank my very Life away.

O! lead me to yon cooling Bowers,
And give me fresher Wreaths of Flowers;
For those that now my Temples shade,
Scorch'd by my burning Forehead, fade:

But O! my Heart, what can remove,
What Wines, what Shades, this Heat of Love?
These are all vain, alas! I find;
Love is the Fever of the Mind.

ODE XXIII. THE VANITY OF RICHES.

If the treasur'd Gold could give
Man a longer Term to live,
I'd employ my utmost Care
Still to keep, and still to spare;
And, when Death approach'd, would say,
“Take thy Fee, and walk away.”

But since riches cannot save
Mortals from the gloomy Grave,
Why should I myself deceive,
Vainly sigh, and vainly grieve?
Death will surely be my Lot,
Whether I am rich, or not.

Give me freely while I live
Generous Wines, in Plenty give
Soothing Joys my Life to chear,
Beauty kind, and Friends sincere;
Happy! could I ever find
Friends sincere, and Beauty kind.

ODE XXIV. ENJOYMENT.

Since I'm born a mortal Man,
And my Being's but a Span;
'Tis a March that I must make;
'Tis a Journey I must take:
What is past I know too well;
What is future who can tell?
Teazing Care, then set me free,
What have I to do with thee?
Ere I die, for die I must,
Ere this Body turns to Dust,

Every Moment I'll employ
In sweet Revelry and Joy,
Laugh and sing, and dance and play,
With Lyæus young and gay.

ODE XXV. WINE BANISHES CARES.

When gay Bacchus chears my Breast,
All my Cares are lull'd to Rest:

Griefs that weep, and Toils that teaze,
What have I to do with these?
No Solicitudes can save
Mortals from the gloomy Grave.
Shall I thus myself deceive?
Shall I languish? Shall I grieve?
Let us quaff the generous Juice;
Bacchus gave it for our Use.

For when Wine transports the Breast,
All our Cares are lull'd to Rest.

ODE XXVI. THE TRANSPORTS OF WINE.

When gay Bacchus fills my Breast,
All my Cares are lull'd to Rest,
Rich I seem as Lydia's King,
Merry Catch or Ballad sing;

Ivy-wreaths my Temples shade,
Ivy that will never fade:
Thus I sit in Mind elate,
Laughing at the Farce of State.

Some delight in fighting Fields,
Nobler Transports Bacchus yields:
Fill the Bowl—I ever said,
'Tis better to lie drunk than dead.

ODE XXVII. THE PRAISE OF BACCHUS.

Bacchus , Jove's delightful Boy,
Generous God of Wine and Joy,
Still exhilarates my Soul
With the Raptures of the Bowl;
Then with feather'd Feet I bound,
Dancing in a festive Round;
Then I feel, in sparkling Wine,
Transports delicate, divine;

Then the sprightly Music warms,
Song delights, and Beauty charms:
Debonair, and light, and gay,
Thus I dance the Hours away.

ODE XXVIII. HIS MISTRESS's PICTURE.

[_]

From the Guardian.

Best and happiest Artisan,
Best of Painters, if you can,
With your many-colour'd Art
Paint the Mistress of my Heart.

Describe the Charms you hear from me,
(Her charms you could not paint and see)
And make the absent Nymph appear
As if her lovely Self were here.

First draw her easy-flowing Hair,
As soft and black as she is fair;

And, if your Art can rise so high,
Let breathing Odours round her fly.

Beneath the Shade of flowing Jet,
The ivory Forehead smoothly set,
With Care the sable Brows extend,
And in two Arches nicely bend;
That the fair Space, which lies between
The meeting Shade, may scarce be seen.
The Eye must be uncommon Fire,
Sparkle, languish, and desire;
The Flames, unseen, must yet be felt,
Like Pallas kill, like Venus melt.
The rosy Cheeks must seem to glow
Amidst the White of new-fall'n Snow.

Let her Lips Persuasion wear,
In Silence elegantly fair;
As if the blushing Rivals strove,
Breathing and inviting Love.

Below her Chin be sure to deck
With every Grace her polish'd Neck;
While all that's pretty, soft, and sweet,
In the swelling Bosom meet.
The rest in purple Garments veil,
Her Body, not her Shape, conceal.

Enough!—the lovely Work is done,
The breathing Paint will speak anon.

ODE XXIX. BATHYLLUS.

Now, illustrious Artisan,
Paint the well-proportion'd Man;
Once again the Tints prepare,
Paint Bathyllus young and fair.

Draw his Tresses soft and black,
Flowing graceful down his Back,
Auburn be the curl'd Extremes,
Glowing like the solar Beams;

Let them negligently fall,
Easy, free, and artless all.

Let his bright cærulean Brow
Grace his Forehead white as Snow.

Let his Eyes, that glow with Fire,
Gentlest, mildest Love inspire;
Steal from Mars the radiant Mien,
Softness from th'Idalian Queen;

This, with Hope the Heart to bless,
That, with Terror to depress.

Next, his Cheeks with Roses crown,
And the Peach's dubious Down;
And, if Art can this bestow,
Let the Blush ingenuous glow.

But Description would be faint,
Teaching you his Lips to paint:
There let fair Persuasion dwell,
Let them gently, softly swell,
Seem in sweetest Sounds to break
Willing Air, and silent speak.

Now you've finish'd high the Face,
Draw his ivory Neck with Grace;
All the Charms and Beauty add,
Such as fair Adonis had.

Let me, next, the Bosom see
And the hands of Mercury.

But I'll not presume to tell,
Artist, you who paint so well,
How the Foot should be exprest,
How to finish all the rest.

I the Price you ask will give,
For the Picture seems to live:
Gold's too little, view this Piece,
'Tis the pictur'd Pride of Greece;
This divine Apollo take,
And from this Bathyllus make.
When to Samos you repair,
Ask for young Bathyllus there,
Finest Figure Eye e'er saw,
From Bathyllus Phœbus draw.

ODE XXX. CUPID TAKEN PRISONER.

Late the Muses Cupid found
And with Wreaths of Roses bound,
Bound him fast, as soon as caught,
And to blooming Beauty brought.
Venus with large Ransom strove
To release the God of Love.
Vain is Ransom, vain is fee,
Love refuses to be free.

Happy in his rosy Chain,
Love with Beauty will remain.

ODE XXXI. THE PLEASING FRENZY.

Indulge me, Stoics, with the Bowl,
And let me gratify my Soul;
Your Precepts to the Schools confine,
For I'll be nobly mad with wine.

Alcmæon and Orestes grew
Quite mad when they their Mothers slew:
But I, no Man, no Mother kill'd,
No Blood but that of Bacchus spill'd,

Will prove the Virtues of the Vine,
And be immensely mad with Wine.

When Hercules was mad, we know,
He grasp'd the Iphitean Bow;
The Rattling of his Quiver spread
Astonishment around and Dread.
Mad Ajax, with his sevenfold Shield,
Tremendous stalk'd along the Field,
Great Hector's flaming Sword he drew,
And Hosts of Greeks in Fancy slew.

But I with no such Fury glow,
No Sword I wave, nor bend the Bow:
My Helmet is a flowery Crown;
In this bright Bowl my Cares I'll drown,
And rant in Ecstacies divine,
Heroically mad with Wine.

ODE XXXII. THE NUMBER OF HIS MISTRESSES.

When thou can'st fairly number all
The Leaves on Trees that fade and fall,
Or count the foaming Waves that roar,
Or tell the Pebbles on the Shore;

Then may'st thou reckon up the Names
Of all my Beauties, all my Flames.

At Athens, Flames that still survive,
First count me only thirty-five.
At Corinth next tell o'er the Fair,
Tell me a whole battalion there.
In Greece the fairest Nymphs abound,
And worse than banner'd Armies wound.
Count all that make their sweet Abodes
At Lesbos, or delightful Rhodes.
Then Carian and Ionian Dames,
Write me at least two thousand Flames.

What! think'st thou this too large a Sum?
Egypt and Syria are to come.

And Crete where Love his Sway maintains,
And o'er a hundred Cities reigns.
Yet still unnumber'd, still remain
The Nymphs of Persia and of Spain,
And Indians, scorch'd by Titan's Ray,
Whose Charms have burnt my Heart away.

ODE XXXIII. THE SWALLOW.

Lovely Swallow, once a Year,
Pleas'd you pay your Visit here;
When our Clime the Sun-beams gild,
Here your airy Nest you build;
And, when bright Days cease to smile,
Fly to Memphis, or the Nile:

But, alas! within my Breast
Love for ever makes his Nest;
There the little Cupids lie,
Some prepare their Wings to fly,
Some unhatch'd, some form'd in Part,
Lie close nestling at my Heart,
Chirping loud; their ceaseless Noise
All my golden Peace destroys:

Some, quite fledg'd and fully grown,
Nurse the Younglings as their own;
These, when feather'd, others feed,
And thus propagate their Breed.
Dreadful Torment I sustain,
What, alas! can ease my Pain:
The vast Flocks of Loves that dwell
In my Breast no Tongue can tell.

ODE XXXIV. TO HIS MISTRESS.

Though cold Winter o'er my Brow
Sheds a scatter'd Shower of Snow,
Waving Locks of silver Hair;
Fly me not, capricious Fair.
Though the Spring's enlivening Power
Blossoms in your Beauty's Flower,
Fly me not, nor slight my Love;
In this Chaplet, lo! are wove

Lucid Colours blending bright
Roses red, and Lillies white:
We, methinks, resemble those;
I the Lilly, you the Rose.

ODE XXXV. ON THE PICTURE OF EUROPA.

This pictur'd Bull is mighty Jove,
Who meditates some Prank of Love;
On his broad Back, with pleasing Care,
He safely bears the Tyrian Fair:

Lo! buoyant on the foaming Tide,
He throws the circling Waves aside,
Securely steering through the Sea.
No other daring Bull, but He,
Would leave his Heifers on the Plain,
To tempt the Dangers of the Main.

ODE XXXVIII. ON HIMSELF.

Yes, I'm old, I'm old, 'tis true;
What have I with Time to do?
With the Young and with the Gay,
I can drink as much as they.
Let the jovial Band advance,
Still I'm ready for the Dance:
What's my Sceptre, if you ask,
Lo? I sway a mighty Flask.

Should some mettled Blade delight
In the bloody Scenes of Fight,
Let him to this Stage ascend,
Still I'm ready to contend—
Mix the Grape's rich Blood, my Page,
We in drinking will engage.

Yes, I'm old; yet with the Gay
I can be as brisk as they;
Like Silenus' midst his Train,
I can dance along the Plain.

ODE XXXIX. ON HIMSELF.

When I drain the rosy Bowl,
Joy exhilarates my Soul;

To the Nine I raise my Song,
Ever fair and ever young.

When full Cups my Cares expel,
Sober Counsels, then farewell:
Let the Winds that murmur, sweep
All my Sorrows to the Deep.

When I drink dull Time away,
Jolly Bacchus, ever gay,
Leads me to delightful Bowers,
Full of Fragrance, full of Flowers.

When I quaff the sparkling Wine,
And my Locks with Roses twine,
Then I praise Life's rural Scene,
Sweet, sequester'd, and serene.

When I sink the Bowl profound,
Richest Fragrance flowing round,
And some lovely Nymph detain,
Venus then inspires the Strain.

When from Goblets deep and wide
I exhaust the generous Tide,
All my Soul unbends—I play
Gamesome with the Young and Gay.

When the foaming Bowl I drain,
Real Blessings are my Gain;
Blessings which my own I call:
Death is common to us all.

ODE XL. CUPID WOUNDED.

Once as Cupid, tir'd with Play,
On a Bed of Roses lay,
A rude Bee, that slept unseen,
The sweet-breathing Buds between,

Stung his Finger, cruel Chance!
With its little pointed Lance.
Strait he fills the Air with Cries,
Weeps, and sobs, and runs, and flies;
Till the God to Venus came,
Lovely, laughter-loving Dame:
Then he thus began to plain;
“Oh! undone—I die with Pain—
“Dear Mamma, a Serpent small,
“Which a Bee the Plough-men call,
“Imp'd with Wings, and arm'd with Dart,
“Oh!—has stung me to the Heart.”

Venus thus reply'd, and smil'd;
‘Dry those Tears, for shame! my Child;
‘If a Bee can wound so deep,
‘Causing Cupid thus to weep,
‘Think, O think! what cruel Pains
‘He that's stung by thee sustains.’

ODE XLI. THE BANQUET OF WINE

Now let us gayly drink, and join
To celebrate the God of Wine,
Bacchus, who taught his jovial Throng
The Dance, and patroniz'd the Song;

100

In Heart, in Soul, with Love the same,
The Favourite of the Cyprian Dame.

Revelry he nam'd his Heir;
The Graces are his Daughters fair:
Sadness in Lethe's Lake he sleeps;
Solicitude before him sleeps.

When in large Bowls fair Boys produce
The heart-exhilarating Juice,
Then all our Sorrows are resign'd,
They fly, and mingle with the Wind.
The generous Bowl then let us drain,
Dismissing Care, forgetting Pain:

101

For Life, what Pleasure can it give,
If with Anxiety we live?
And what hereafter may betide
No living Casuist can decide.

The Days of Man are fix'd by Fate,
Dark and obscure, though short the Date.

Then let me, warm with Wine, advance,
And revel in the tipsey Dance;
Or, breathing Odours, sport and play
Among the Fair, among the Gay.

102

As for those stubborn Fools that will
Be wretched, be they wretched still.
But let us gayly drink, and join
To celebrate the God of Wine.

ODE XLII. ON HIMSELF.

When Bacchus, jolly God, invites,
In sprightly Dance my Heart delights;
When with blithe Youths I drain the Bowl,
The Lyre can harmonize my Soul:
But when, indulging amorous Play,
I frolic with the Fair and Gay,
With hyacinthine Chaplet crown'd,
Then, then the sweetest Joys abound;
My honest Heart nor Envy bears,
Nor Envy's poison'd Arrows fears;
By rankling Malice never stung,
I shun the venom-venting Tongue.

103

And at the jovial Banquet hate
Contentions, Battles, and Debate:
When to the Lyre's melodious Sound
With Phyllis in the Dance I bound,
The blooming Fair, the silver Lyre,
Should only Dance and Love inspire:
Then let us pass Life's peaceful Day
In Mirth and Innocence away.

104

ODE XLIII. THE GRASHOPPER.

Thee, sweet Grashopper, we call
Happiest of Insects all,
Who from Spray to Spray canst skip,
And the Dew of Morning sip:
Little Sips inspire to sing;
Then thou'rt happy as a King.

105

All, whatever thou can'st see,
Herbs and Flowers belong to thee;
All the various Seasons yield,
All the Produce of the Field.
Thou, quite innocent of Harm,
Lov'st the Farmer, and the Farm;
Singing sweet when Summer's near,
Thou to all Mankind art dear;
Dear to all the tuneful Nine
Seated round the Throne divine;

106

Dear to Phœbus, God of Day,
He inspir'd thy sprightly Lay,
And with Voice melodious blest,
And in vivid Colours drest.
Thou from Spoil of Time art free;
Age can never injure thee.
Wisest Daughter of the Earth!
Fond of Song, and full of Mirth;
Free from Flesh, exempt from Pains,
No Blood riots in thy Veins:
To the Blest I equal thee;
Thou'rt a Demi-Deity.

107

ODE XLIV. THE DREAM.

I dream'd, that late I Pinions wore,
And swiftly seem'd through Air to soar;
Me fleeter Cupid, quick as Thought,
Pursued, and in an Instant caught,
Though at his Feet hung Weights of Lead:
What can this Vision mean, I said?
Its mystic Sense I thus explain:
I, who ere-while have worn the Chain

108

Of many a Fair-one for a Day,
Then flung the flowery Band away,
Am now involv'd, and fetter'd fast
In Links that will for ever last.

111

ODE XLVI. THE POWER OF GOLD.

Love's a Pain that works our Woe;
Not to love, is painful too:
But, alas! the greatest Pain
Waits the Love that meets Disdain.

What avails ingenuous Worth,
Sprightly Wit, or noble Birth?
All these Virtues useless prove;
Gold alone engages Love.

112

May he be compleatly curst,
Who the sleeping Mischief first
Wak'd to Life, and, vile before,
Stamp'd with Worth the sordid Ore.
Gold creates in Brethren Strife;
Gold destroys the Parent's Life;
Gold produces civil Jars,
Murders, Massacres, and Wars:
But, the worst Effect of Gold,
Love, alas! is bought and sold.

113

ODE XLVII. YOUNG OLD-AGE.

Yes, yes, I own, I love to see
Old Men facetious, blithe, and free;
I love the Youth that light can bound,
Or graceful swim th'harmonious Round:
But when Old-Age jocose, though grey,
Can dance and frolic with the Gay;
'Tis plain to all the jovial Throng,
Though hoar the Head, the Heart is young.

134

ODE LVII. THAT WE SHOULD DRINK WITH MODERATION.

Bring hither, Boy, a mighty Bowl,
And let me quench my thirsty Soul;
Fill two Parts Water, fill it high,
Add one of Wine, for I am dry:
Thus let the limpid Stream allay
The jolly God's too potent Sway.

Quick, Boy, dispatch—My Friends, no more,
Thus let us drinking rant and roar;
Such clamorous Riot better suits
Unpolished Scythia's barbarous Brutes:
Let us, while Music tunes the Soul,
Mix Temperance in the friendly Bowl.

135

ODE LVIII. THE LOVE-DRAUGHT.

As late of Flow'rets fresh and fair
I wove a Chaplet for my Hair,
Beneath a Rose, gay Summer's Pride,
The wanton God of Love I spy'd,
I seiz'd him, resolute of Soul,
And plung'd him in my flowing Bowl,
Resolv'd to have a Draught divine,
And fairly swallow'd him in Wine:
E'er since his fluttering Wings impart
Strange Titillations to my Heart.

136

ODE LIX. TO A SCORNFUL BEAUTY.

Why thus with scornful Look you fly,
Wild Thracian Filly, tell me why?
Think'st thou that I no Skill possess,
And want both Courage and Address?
Know, that whenever I think fit
To tame thee with the galling Bit,
Just where I please, with tighten'd Rein,
I'll urge thee round the dusty Plain.
Now on the flowery Turf you feed,
Or lightly bound along the Mead,

137

So wild, so wanton, and untry'd,
You want some Youth to mount and ride.

ODE LX. EPITHALAMIUM ON THE MARRIAGE OF STRATOCLES AND MYRILLA.

Venus , fair Queen of Gods above,
Cupid, thou mighty Power of Love,
And Hymen bland, by Heaven design'd
The fruitful Source of Human-kind:

138

To you, as to the Lyre I sing,
Flows Honour from the sounding String;
Propitious to the Numbers prove,
O Venus, Hymen, God of Love.
View, gentle Youth, with Rapture view
This blooming Bride, ordain'd for you;
Rise quick, and feast on all her Charms,
Lest, like a Bird, she fly your Arms.
O happy Youth! by Venus blest,
But happier on Myrilla's Breast:
‘See how the Fair-one, sweetly coy,
‘All soft Confusion, meets the Joy,
‘Blooming as Health, fresh as May-flowers,
‘And bright as radiant Noon-tide Hours.’

Of all the Flowers upon the Plains,
The Rose unmatch'd in Beauty reigns;

139

Myrilla thus in Charms excells,
She shines the Rose among the Belles.
O may, blest Youth, the God of Day
The pleasing Toils of Love survey;
And may a beauteous blooming Boy
Crown your soft Vows with lasting Joy!

ODE LXI. ON GOLD.

When Gold, that Fugitive unkind,
With Pinions swifter than the Wind,
Flies from my willing Arms away,
(For Gold with me will never stay)
With careless Eyes his Flight I view,
Who would perfidious Foes pursue?

140

When from the glittering Mischief free,
What Mortal can compare with me?
All my Inquietudes of Mind
I give to murmur with the Wind:
Love sweetly tunes my melting Lyre
To tender Notes of soft Desire.

But when the Vagrant finds I burn
With Rage, and slight him in his Turn,
He comes, my Quiet to destroy,
With the mad Family of Joy:
Adieu to Love, and soft Desire!
He steals me from my soothing Lyre.

O faithless Gold! Thou dear Deceit!
Say, wilt thou still my Fancy cheat?

141

This Lute far sweeter Transport brings,
More pleasing these love-warbled Strings:
For thou with Envy and with Wiles
Me of my dearest Love beguiles,
Dashing the Cup of sweet Desire,
And robb'st me of my golden Lyre.
Then, for with me thou wilt not stay,
To faithless Phrygians speed'st away,
Proud and assiduous to please
Those Sons of Perfidy and Ease.

Me from the Muse thou would'st detain,
But all thy tempting Arts are vain;
Ne'er shall my Voice forget to sing,
Nor this right Hand to touch the String:
Away to other Climes! Farewell!—
Leave me to tune the vocal Shell.

142

ODE LXII. ON THE SPRING.

What bright Joy can this exceed,
This of roving o'er the Mead?
Where the Hand of Flora pours,
Sweetest, voluntary Flow'rs:
Where the Zephyr's balmy Gale
Wantons in the lovely Vale.
O! how pleasing to recline
Underneath the spreading Vine,
In the close Concealment laid
With a love-inspiring Maid!
Fair, and sweet, and young, and gay,
Chatting all the live-long day.

143

ODE LXIII. TO CUPID.

Mighty God of Flames and Darts,
Great Controuler of all Hearts;
With thee Venus, lovely Fair,
Venus with the golden Hair,
And the bright-ey'd Dryads play,
Nymphs that on the Mountains stray:
Come, propitious to my Vow,
Leave the Mountain's rugged Brow;
Quick descend into the Plain,
Where the Object of my Pain,
Sweet Eurypyle imparts
Anxious Hopes to youthful Hearts;
Melt to Love the yielding Fair,
Teach her not to give Despair;
Thou my Passion must approve,
Melt the yielding Fair to Love.

144

ODE LXIV. TO CUPID.

Idalian God, with golden Hair,
O Cupid, ever young and fair,
Fly to my Aid, and safely shroud
Me in a purple-beaming Cloud,
And on thy painted Wings convey
A faithful Lover on his Way.
Thy Blandishments disturb my Rest,
And kindle Tumults in my Breast;

145

The pleasing poison was convey'd
Late from the lovely Lesbian Maid;
Her sun-bright Eye discharg'd a Dart,
That rankling preys upon my Heart:
In sparkling Wit beyond Compare,
She slights, alas! my silver Hair,
Regardless of my heart-felt Pain,
And fondly loves some happier Swain.

146

ODE LXV. ON HIMSELF.

I lately thought, delightful Theme!
Anacreon saw me in a Dream,
The Teian Sage, the honey'd Bard,
Who call'd me with a sweet Regard;
I, pleas'd to meet him, ran in haste,
And with a friendly Kiss embrac'd.

'Tis true, he seem'd a little old,
But gay and comely to behold;
Still bow'd to Cytherea's Shrine.
His Lip was redolent of Wine:

147

He reel'd as if he scarce could stand,
But Cupid led him by the Hand.

The Poet, with a gentle Look,
A Chaplet from his Temples took,
That did of sweet Anacreon breathe,
And smiling gave to me the Wreath.
I from his Brow the flow'ry Crown
Receiv'd, and plac'd it on my own:
Thence all my Woes unnumber'd flow,
E'er since with raging Love I glow.

150

ODE LXVII. ON LOVE.

To Love I wake the silver String,
And of his soft Dominion sing:
A Wreath of Flowers adorns his Brow,
The sweetest, fairest Flowers that Blow:
All Mortals own his mighty Sway,
And him the Gods above obey.

151

ODE LXVIII. THE SUPPLICATION.

Queen of the Woodland Chace, whose Darts
Unerring pierce the Mountain-harts,
Diana chaste, Jove's Daughter fair,
Suppliant to thee I breathe my Prayer.
Descend, propitious to my Vow,
To where the Streams of Lethe flow:
In Pity aid a hapless Race,
Bright Goddess of the Woodland Chace;
With holy Awe they own thy Sway,
And meek in Reverence obey.

152

ODE LXIX. ARTEMON.

A Fragment.

Now Artemon, a favourite Name,
Inspires Eurypyle with Flame:
An Upstart of ignoble Blood,
Who plodded late in Shoes of Wood;
And round his Waist, instead of Vest,
Wore a Cow's stinking Hide undrest,
Which might, on fit Occasion, yield.
Rank Covering for a rotten Shield.

153

This Wretch, with other Wretches vile,
Liv'd hard by Drudgery and Toil;
Oft sentenc'd cruel Pains to feel
At Whipping-post, or Racking-wheel:
But now, conspicuous from afar,
He rides triumphant in his Car;
With golden Pendants in his Ears,
Aloft the silken Reins he bears,
Proud, and effeminately gay:
His Slaves an Ivory Skreen display,
To guard him from the Solar Ray.

ODE LXX. TO HIS BOY.

Boy, while here I sit supine,
Bring me Water, bring me Wine;
Bring me, to adorn my Brow,
Wreaths of Flowers that sweetly blow:
Love invites—O! let me prove
The Joys of Wine, the Sweets of Love.

University of Virginia Library

THE ODES OF ANACREON.

Translated from the Greek.