Odes of Anacreon translated from the Greek, into English verse |
 | ODES OF ANACREON,
|
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XX. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| L. |
| LI. |
| LII. |
| LIII. |
| LIV. |
| LXII. |
| LXVI. |
 | Odes of Anacreon |  |
3
ODES OF ANACREON,
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK, INTO ENGLISH VERSE, BY ... Dr BROOME [etc.]
27
XV.—HAPPY LIFE.
(By Dr. Broome.)
The wealth of Gyges I despise,
Gems have no charms to tempt the wise;
Riches I leave, and such vain things,
To the low aim and pride of kings.
Let my bright hair with unguents flow,
With rosy garlands crown my brow:
This sun shall roll in joy away;
To-morrow is a distant day.
Gems have no charms to tempt the wise;
Riches I leave, and such vain things,
To the low aim and pride of kings.
Let my bright hair with unguents flow,
With rosy garlands crown my brow:
This sun shall roll in joy away;
To-morrow is a distant day.
Then while the hour serenely shines,
Toss the gay die, and quaff thy wines;
But ever in the genial hour,
To Bacchus the libation pour,
Lest death in wrath approach, and cry,
Man—taste no more the cup of joy!
Toss the gay die, and quaff thy wines;
29
To Bacchus the libation pour,
Lest death in wrath approach, and cry,
Man—taste no more the cup of joy!
XVI.—THE POWER OF BEAUTY.
(Ry Dr. Broome.)
Some sing of Thebes, and some employ
Their numbers on the siege of Troy.
I mourn, alas! in plaintive strains,
My own captivity and chains.
No navy, rang'd in proud array,
No foot, no horseman arm'd to slay,
My peace alarm: far other foes,
Far other hosts, create my woes;
Strange dangerous hosts, that ambush'd lie
In every bright, love-darting eye!
Such as destroy, when beauty arms
To conquer, dreadful in its charms!
Their numbers on the siege of Troy.
I mourn, alas! in plaintive strains,
My own captivity and chains.
No navy, rang'd in proud array,
No foot, no horseman arm'd to slay,
My peace alarm: far other foes,
Far other hosts, create my woes;
Strange dangerous hosts, that ambush'd lie
In every bright, love-darting eye!
Such as destroy, when beauty arms
To conquer, dreadful in its charms!
33
XX.—TO HIS MISTRESS.
(By Dr. Broome.)
The gods o'er mortals prove their sway,
And steal them from themselves away.
Transform'd by their almighty hands,
Sad Niobe an image stands;
And Philomel, up-borne on wings,
Through air her mournful story sings.
And steal them from themselves away.
Transform'd by their almighty hands,
35
And Philomel, up-borne on wings,
Through air her mournful story sings.
Would heaven, indulgent to my vow,
The happy change I wish allow;
Thy envied mirror I would be,
That thou might'st always gaze on me;
And, could my naked heart appear,
Thou'dst see thyself—for thou art there!
Or were I made thy folding vest,
That thou might'st clasp me to thy breast!
Or, turn'd into a fount, to lave
Thy naked beauties in my wave!
Thy bosom-cincture I would grow,
To warm those little hills of snow:
Thy ointment, in such fragrant streams
To wander o'er thy beauteous limbs;
Thy chain of shining pearls, to deck
And close embrace thy graceful neck:
A very sandal I would be,
To tread on—if trod on by thee.
The happy change I wish allow;
Thy envied mirror I would be,
That thou might'st always gaze on me;
And, could my naked heart appear,
Thou'dst see thyself—for thou art there!
Or were I made thy folding vest,
That thou might'st clasp me to thy breast!
Or, turn'd into a fount, to lave
Thy naked beauties in my wave!
Thy bosom-cincture I would grow,
To warm those little hills of snow:
Thy ointment, in such fragrant streams
To wander o'er thy beauteous limbs;
Thy chain of shining pearls, to deck
And close embrace thy graceful neck:
A very sandal I would be,
To tread on—if trod on by thee.
61
XXXVI.—LIFE SHOULD BE ENJOYED.
BY DR. BROOME.
Talk not to me of pedant rules,
I leave debates to learned fools,
Who solemnly in form advise,
At best, impertinently wise.
I leave debates to learned fools,
Who solemnly in form advise,
At best, impertinently wise.
To me more pleasing precepts give,
And teach the science—how to live;
To bury in the friendly draught
Sorrows that spring from too much thought;
To learn soft lessons from the fair,
How life may glide exempt from care.
And teach the science—how to live;
To bury in the friendly draught
Sorrows that spring from too much thought;
To learn soft lessons from the fair,
How life may glide exempt from care.
Alas! I'm old—I see my head
With hoary locks by time o'erspread:
Then instant be the goblet brought,
To make me young—at least in thought.
With hoary locks by time o'erspread:
Then instant be the goblet brought,
To make me young—at least in thought.
Alas! incessant speeds the day,
When I must mix with common clay;
When I must tread the dismal shore,
And dream of love and wine no more.
When I must mix with common clay;
When I must tread the dismal shore,
And dream of love and wine no more.
63
XXXVII.—THE SPRING.
BY DR. BROOME.
See! winter's past; the seasons bring
Soft breezes with returning spring;
At whose approach the Graces wear
Fresh honours in their flowing hair;
The raging seas forget to roar,
And, smiling, gently kiss the shore;
The sportive duck, in wanton play,
Now dives, now rises into day;
The cranes from freezing skies repair,
And sailing float to warmer air;
Th' enlivening suns in glory rise,
And gaily dance along the skies;
The clouds disperse, or, if in showers
They fall, it is to wake the flowers.
Soft breezes with returning spring;
At whose approach the Graces wear
Fresh honours in their flowing hair;
The raging seas forget to roar,
And, smiling, gently kiss the shore;
The sportive duck, in wanton play,
Now dives, now rises into day;
The cranes from freezing skies repair,
And sailing float to warmer air;
Th' enlivening suns in glory rise,
And gaily dance along the skies;
The clouds disperse, or, if in showers
They fall, it is to wake the flowers.
See! verdure clothes the teeming earth;
The olive struggles into birth;
The swelling grapes adorn the vine,
And kindly promise future wine:
Bless'g juice! already I in thought
Quaff an imaginary draught.
The olive struggles into birth;
The swelling grapes adorn the vine,
And kindly promise future wine:
65
Quaff an imaginary draught.
83
XLVIII.—THE HAPPY EFFECTS OF WINE.
(By Dr. Broome.)
See! see! the jolly god appears,
His hand a mighty goblet bears;
With sparkling wine full charg'd it flows,
The sovereign cure of human woes.
Wine gives a kind release from care,
And courage to subdue the fair;
Instructs the cheerful to advance,
Harmonious in the sprightly dance.
Hail, goblet, rich with generous wines!
See! round the verge a vine-branch twines.
His hand a mighty goblet bears;
With sparkling wine full charg'd it flows,
The sovereign cure of human woes.
Wine gives a kind release from care,
And courage to subdue the fair;
Instructs the cheerful to advance,
Harmonious in the sprightly dance.
Hail, goblet, rich with generous wines!
See! round the verge a vine-branch twines.
See! how the mimic clusters roll,
As ready to refill the bowl.
Wine keeps its happy patients free
From every painful malady;
Our best physician all the year,
Thus guarded, no disease we fear,
No troublesome disease of mind,
Until another year grows kind,
And loads again the fruitful vine,
And brings again our health-new wine.
As ready to refill the bowl.
Wine keeps its happy patients free
From every painful malady;
Our best physician all the year,
Thus guarded, no disease we fear,
No troublesome disease of mind,
Until another year grows kind,
And loads again the fruitful vine,
And brings again our health-new wine.
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.
LI.—THE ROSE.
(By Dr. Broome.)
Come, lyrist, tune thy harp, and play
Responsive to my vocal lay;
Gently touch it, while I sing
The rose, the glory of the spring.
To heaven the rose in fragrance flies,
The sweetest incense of the skies.
Responsive to my vocal lay;
Gently touch it, while I sing
The rose, the glory of the spring.
To heaven the rose in fragrance flies,
The sweetest incense of the skies.
Thee, joy of earth, when vernal hours
Pour forth a blooming waste of flowers
The gaily-smiling Graces wear
A trophy in their flowing hair:
Thee Venus, queen of beauty, loves;
And, crown'd with thee, more graceful moves.
In fabled song, and tuneful lays,
Their favourite rose the Muses praise:
To pluck the rose the virgin train
With blood their pretty fingers stain:
Nor dread the pointed terrors round,
That threaten and inflict a wound:
See! how they wave the charming toy,
Now kiss, now snuff the fragrant joy.
Pour forth a blooming waste of flowers
The gaily-smiling Graces wear
A trophy in their flowing hair:
91
And, crown'd with thee, more graceful moves.
In fabled song, and tuneful lays,
Their favourite rose the Muses praise:
To pluck the rose the virgin train
With blood their pretty fingers stain:
Nor dread the pointed terrors round,
That threaten and inflict a wound:
See! how they wave the charming toy,
Now kiss, now snuff the fragrant joy.
The rose the poets strive to praise,
And for it would exchange their bays;
O! ever to the sprightly feast
Admitted, welcome, pleasing guest!
But chiefly when the goblet flows,
And rosy wreaths adorn our brows!
Lovely smiling rose, how sweet
All objects where thy beauties meet!
Aurora, with a blushing ray,
And rosy fingers, spreads the day:
The Graces more enchanting show,
When rosy blushes paint their snow;
And every pleas'd beholder seeks
The rose in Cytherea's cheeks.
And for it would exchange their bays;
O! ever to the sprightly feast
Admitted, welcome, pleasing guest!
But chiefly when the goblet flows,
And rosy wreaths adorn our brows!
Lovely smiling rose, how sweet
All objects where thy beauties meet!
Aurora, with a blushing ray,
And rosy fingers, spreads the day:
The Graces more enchanting show,
When rosy blushes paint their snow;
And every pleas'd beholder seeks
The rose in Cytherea's cheeks.
When pain afflicts, or sickness grieves,
Its juice the drooping heart relieves;
And, after death, its odours shed
A pleasing fragrance o'er the dead;
And when its withering charms decay,
And sinking, fading, die away;
Triumphant o'er the rage of time,
It keeps the fragrance of its prime.
Come, lyrist, join to sing the birth
Of this sweet offspring of the earth!
When Venus from the ocean's bed
Rais'd o'er the waves her lovely head;
When warlike Pallas sprung from Jove,
Tremendous to the powers above,
To grace the world the teeming earth
Gave the fragrant infant birth;
And, ‘This, (she cried) I this ordain
My favourite, queen of flowers to reign.’
But first, the' assembled gods debate
The future wonder to create:
Its juice the drooping heart relieves;
And, after death, its odours shed
A pleasing fragrance o'er the dead;
And when its withering charms decay,
And sinking, fading, die away;
Triumphant o'er the rage of time,
It keeps the fragrance of its prime.
93
Of this sweet offspring of the earth!
When Venus from the ocean's bed
Rais'd o'er the waves her lovely head;
When warlike Pallas sprung from Jove,
Tremendous to the powers above,
To grace the world the teeming earth
Gave the fragrant infant birth;
And, ‘This, (she cried) I this ordain
My favourite, queen of flowers to reign.’
But first, the' assembled gods debate
The future wonder to create:
Agreed at length, from heaven they threw
A drop of rich nectareous dew:
A bramble-stem the drop receives,
And straight the rose adorns the leaves.
The gods to Bacchus gave the flower,
To grace him in the genial hour.
A drop of rich nectareous dew:
A bramble-stem the drop receives,
And straight the rose adorns the leaves.
The gods to Bacchus gave the flower,
To grace him in the genial hour.
LII.—GROWN YOUNG.
(By Dr. Broome).
When sprightly youth my eyes survey,
I too am young, and I am gay;
In dance my active body swims,
And sudden pinions lift my limbs.
I too am young, and I am gay;
In dance my active body swims,
And sudden pinions lift my limbs.
Haste, crown, Cybeba, crown my brows.
With garlands of the fragrant rose!
Hence, hoary age!—I now am young,
And dance the mirthful youths among.
Come, then, my friends, 'the goblet drain!
Bless'd juice!—I feel thee in each vein!
See! how with active bounds I spring!
How strong', and yet how sweet I sing!
How bless'd am I, who thus excel
In pleasing arts of trifling well!
With garlands of the fragrant rose!
Hence, hoary age!—I now am young,
95
Come, then, my friends, 'the goblet drain!
Bless'd juice!—I feel thee in each vein!
See! how with active bounds I spring!
How strong', and yet how sweet I sing!
How bless'd am I, who thus excel
In pleasing arts of trifling well!
LIII.—THE MARK.
(By Dr. Broome.)
The stately steed expressive bears
A mark imprinted on his hairs:
The turban, that adorns the brows
Of Asia's sons, the Parthian shows:
A mark imprinted on his hairs:
The turban, that adorns the brows
Of Asia's sons, the Parthian shows:
And marks betray the lover's heart,
Deeply engrav'd by Cupid's dart:
I plainly read them in his eyes,
That look too foolish, or too wise.
Deeply engrav'd by Cupid's dart:
I plainly read them in his eyes,
That look too foolish, or too wise.
113
LIV.—OLD AGE.
(By Dr Broome.)
Alas! the powers of life decay!
My hairs are fall'n, or turn'd to gray;
The smiling bloom, and youthful grace,
Is banish'd from my faded face:
Thus man beholds, with weeping eyes,
Himself half dead before he dies.
For this and for the grave I fear,
And pour the never-ceasing tear:
A dreadful prospect strikes my eye,
I soon must sicken, soon must die.
For this the mournful groan I shed,
I dread—alas! the hour I dread!
What eye can stedfastly survey
Death, and its dark tremendous way?
For soon as fate has clos'd our eyes,
Man dies—for ever, ever dies!
All pale, all senseless in the urn!
Never, ah! never to return.
My hairs are fall'n, or turn'd to gray;
The smiling bloom, and youthful grace,
Is banish'd from my faded face:
Thus man beholds, with weeping eyes,
Himself half dead before he dies.
For this and for the grave I fear,
And pour the never-ceasing tear:
A dreadful prospect strikes my eye,
I soon must sicken, soon must die.
For this the mournful groan I shed,
I dread—alas! the hour I dread!
What eye can stedfastly survey
Death, and its dark tremendous way?
For soon as fate has clos'd our eyes,
Man dies—for ever, ever dies!
All pale, all senseless in the urn!
Never, ah! never to return.
114
LXII.—ON APOLLO.
(By Dr Broome.)
Once more, not uninspir'd, the string
I waken, and spontaneous sing:
No Pythic laurel-wreath I claim,
That lifts ambition into fame:
My voice unbidden tunes the lay;
Some god impels and I obey.
Attend, ye groves! the muse prepares
A sacred song in Phrygian airs;
Such as the swan expiring sings,
Melodious, by Cayster's springs,
Where listening winds in silence hear,
And to the gods the music bear.
Celestial muse! attend and bring
Thy aid, while I thy Phœbus sing;
To Phœbus and the muse belong
The laurel, lyre, and Delphic song.
Begin, begin the lofty strain!
How Phœbus lov'd, but lov'd in vain!
How Daphne fled his guilty flame,
And scorn'd a god that offer'd shame.
With glorious pride his vows she hears,
And heaven, indulgent for her prayers,
To laurel chang'd the nymphs, and gave
Her foliage to reward the brave.
Ah! how, on wings of love convey'd,
He flew to clasp the panting maid!
Now, now o'ertakes! but heaven deceives
His hope—he seizes only leaves.
Why burns my raptur'd breast? ah! why?
Ah! whither strives my soul to fly?
I feel pleasing frenzy strong,
Impulsive to some nobler song:
Let, let the wanton fancy play,
But guide it, lest it devious stray.
But, O! in vain—my muse denies
Her aid, a slave to lovely eyes;
Suffice it to rehearse the pains
Of bleeding nymphs and dying swains;
Nor dare to wield the shafts of love
That wound the gods, and conquer Jove.
I yield! Adieu the lofty strain!
Anacreon is himself again:
Again the melting song I play,
Attemper'd to the vocal lay.
See! see! how, with attentive ears,
The youths imbibe the nectar'd airs!
And quaff, in bowery shades reclin'd,
My precepts, to regale the mind.
I waken, and spontaneous sing:
No Pythic laurel-wreath I claim,
That lifts ambition into fame:
My voice unbidden tunes the lay;
Some god impels and I obey.
Attend, ye groves! the muse prepares
A sacred song in Phrygian airs;
Such as the swan expiring sings,
Melodious, by Cayster's springs,
Where listening winds in silence hear,
And to the gods the music bear.
Celestial muse! attend and bring
Thy aid, while I thy Phœbus sing;
To Phœbus and the muse belong
The laurel, lyre, and Delphic song.
Begin, begin the lofty strain!
How Phœbus lov'd, but lov'd in vain!
How Daphne fled his guilty flame,
And scorn'd a god that offer'd shame.
With glorious pride his vows she hears,
And heaven, indulgent for her prayers,
To laurel chang'd the nymphs, and gave
Her foliage to reward the brave.
Ah! how, on wings of love convey'd,
He flew to clasp the panting maid!
Now, now o'ertakes! but heaven deceives
His hope—he seizes only leaves.
Why burns my raptur'd breast? ah! why?
Ah! whither strives my soul to fly?
I feel pleasing frenzy strong,
Impulsive to some nobler song:
Let, let the wanton fancy play,
But guide it, lest it devious stray.
But, O! in vain—my muse denies
Her aid, a slave to lovely eyes;
Suffice it to rehearse the pains
Of bleeding nymphs and dying swains;
Nor dare to wield the shafts of love
That wound the gods, and conquer Jove.
I yield! Adieu the lofty strain!
Anacreon is himself again:
Again the melting song I play,
Attemper'd to the vocal lay.
See! see! how, with attentive ears,
The youths imbibe the nectar'd airs!
And quaff, in bowery shades reclin'd,
My precepts, to regale the mind.
115
LXVI. GAY LIFE.
(By Dr Broome.)
Give me Homer's tuneful lyre,
Let the sound my breast inspire!
But with no troublesome delight
Of arms, and heroes slain in fight:
Let it play no conquests here,
Or conquets only o'er the fair!
Boy, reach that volume—book divine!
The statutes of the god of wine:
He, legislator, statutes draws,
And I, his judge, enforce his laws;
And, faithful to the weighty trust,
Compel his votaries to be just.
Thus, round the bowl impartial flies,
Till to the sprightly dance we rise;
We frisk it with a lively bound,
Charm'd with the lyre's harmonious sound;
Then pour forth, with a heat divine,
Rapturous songs that breathe of wine.
Let the sound my breast inspire!
But with no troublesome delight
Of arms, and heroes slain in fight:
Let it play no conquests here,
Or conquets only o'er the fair!
Boy, reach that volume—book divine!
The statutes of the god of wine:
He, legislator, statutes draws,
And I, his judge, enforce his laws;
And, faithful to the weighty trust,
Compel his votaries to be just.
Thus, round the bowl impartial flies,
Till to the sprightly dance we rise;
We frisk it with a lively bound,
Charm'd with the lyre's harmonious sound;
Then pour forth, with a heat divine,
Rapturous songs that breathe of wine.
| Odes of Anacreon | |