Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

To change the note, the strings I chang'd:
And then through all great numbers rang'd.
Whom should I sing, but Hercules?
Him, who e'en the Gods could please,
Remov'd into their bright abodes?
What have I to do with Gods?
My lyre in weak notes will reply
To that upraised Deity.

Then, O ye heroes, now farewell!
To all my greatness, too, farewell!
The mind must suit the instrument:
And I, whate'er be my intent,
Must be with Love, alas! content.

ODE II.

[Horns to the bull, hoofs to the horse]

Horns to the bull, hoofs to the horse,
To hares a swiftness in the course,
To lions mouths of carnage grim,
To fishes in the wave to swim,
To birds to fly, and thought to Men,
Warlike thought: has Nature, then,
Who gave these things, no further store?
To Woman can she yield no more?

What then to Woman has she given?
Form, the fairest gift of Heaven.
Instead of shields, instead of spears,
Arm'd with this when she appears,
Fire, and iron she doth quell,
And what else the poets tell,
Being by this invincible!

ODE III.

[In the middle hour of night]

In the middle hour of night,
When the Bear's excelling light
By astronomers is scann'd,
Underneath Bootes' hand;
And the race of mortals all,
Wearied, into slumber fall;
Love, then, at my door arriv'd,
And to force the barrier striv'd.

“Who strikes the door?” I ask'd, “who now
“Drives sweet slumber from my brow?”

Then Love again, “Open,” he said,
“I am a boy, be not afraid;
“A little boy, and wet with rain;
“That, searching for my path in vain,
“Have wander'd in the moonless night.”
Pitying, then, his wretched plight,

When this I heard, I rose, and took
My lamp, and op'd the door, and look!
A little boy I saw, who bore
A bow, a quiver, and good store
Of arrows; by the fire I plac'd
The infant; and the coldness chas'd
From his small hands, in mine embrac'd;
Then from his hair the wet I wrung.

But he, ungrateful, though so young,
When now he felt the cold depart,
“Come, let us try,” he said, “our art;
“And make experience, if the bow
“Aught from the rain of evil know.”

Then he drew, and struck me quite
To the mid' liver, like the flight
Of insects; leaping then with joy,
And laughing, “Host, your thoughts employ
“On me with pleasure: see, my bow
“No damage from the rain doth know—
“'Tis your heart shall feel the woe.”

ODE IV.

[“On a tender myrtle bed]

“On a tender myrtle bed,
“Or where lotus leaves are shed,
“Let me drink a gentle round:”

Love stood by, his tunick bound
With papyrus; and, the while,
Pour'd the wine with golden smile.

Like the circle of a wheel,
Flying life away doth steal:
And a little dust we lie,
When Fate gives the word to die.

What needs it, then, the stone t'anoint?
Special, if here you disappoint
Our greedy thirst? or on the earth
To pour down the goblet's worth?

Me rather, while I live, with oil
Anoint; and with the roses' spoil
Adorn my head: for life is short:
And call me now a maid to court.

Yes, O Love, ere yet I go
To the shady quires below,
Fain I would, while yet I may,
Drink life's bitter cares away.

ODE V.

[The Rose, in which the Loves delight]

The Rose, in which the Loves delight,
The Rose, that burns with crimson light,
Let us plunge into our wine;
And her happy leaves entwine
Around our temples; while we quaff
The golden bowl, and gaily laugh.

Rose, of earth th' excelling flow'r!
Rose, that is of Spring the dow'r!
Roses, e'en the Gods' delight!
And the hair of Cupid bright
Is crown'd with Roses; when his feet
With the Graces gently meet.

Crown me, therefore, and I'll play:
By thy fane, O Bacchus gay,
With a maiden will I move,
Deeply-bosom'd: and, in love
With the joys of verse and wine,
Crown'd with happy Roses, shine.

ODE VI.

[Fitting well our rosy wreath]

Fitting well our rosy wreath,
(Let the roses gently breathe
Around our temples;) we will smile,
And our genius here beguile.
Pour the wine; and, in the dance,
Let a maiden soft advance,
Shaking too her spear on high;
Crown'd with ivy wantonly,
Let her to our joy repair:
And a boy, of golden hair,
Breathing sweetness from his mouth,
Shall assuage our ears' sad drowth,
Pouring to the chorded shell
A voice, to melt the soul of Hell.

He, at last, hath found his home:
Love, the gold-hair'd Love, is come:

And, with him, Lyæus fair:
And, with him, too, doth repair
Venus, to rejoice our age,
And, with soft and gentle rage,
In our revel to engage.

ODE VII.

[With a hyacinthine rod]

With a hyacinthine rod,
Hardly moving on my road,
Love bade me by his side to go:
There, where rapid torrents flow;
O'er rugged, and o'er headlong ways;
Till on my heel a serpent preys,
Transfixing me with pois'nous sting:
My heart did to my nostrils spring,
That almost with the pain I died.

Then Love, who my ill state espied,
Refreshing me with gentle wing,
And teaching life anew to spring,
Said, “O Anacreon, this may prove,
“How little you were born to love.”

ODE VIII.

[While I at night asleep did lie]

While I at night asleep did lie
Upon sea-purple tapestry,
Made joyous by Lyæus' gift,
It seem'd to me, in circuit swift,
Scarce touching with my palm the earth,
That I partook of lovely mirth,
And dear sport with a maiden quire:
I panting with the soft desire,
A troop of contumacious boys,
Slender as Bacchus, mock'd my joys,
And surr'lous words at me they toss'd,
For that I lov'd so fair a host.

But when I wish'd, ah me! to kiss
The female quire, behold! my bliss,
And my companions left my dream:
Alone, and wretched i' th' extreme,
I sought again to sleep, and play
In dream with those, who fled away,
Rosy as morn, and fair as day!

ODE IX.

[Lovely dove, tell me, I pray]

Lovely dove, tell me, I pray,
Whence you wing your flight away,
Whence it is that now you fly,
Filling all the joyous sky
With a scent of ointments bright,
That you almost rain delight:
Who is he, for whom you go?
'Tis a care to me to know.

From Anacreon now I fly,
On a special embassy,
To the maid, Bathylla, sent,
With a lovely argument.
She in beauty goeth forth
The queen and lady of the earth.
And me t' Anacreon Venus sold
For a hymn, and not for gold:
And such a hymn hath not been seen;
And from that time have I been

As a slave in his affairs,
Bearing thus his gentle cares.
And now what letters do I carry!
But so long I must not tarry,
Oh what letters! and he says,
(Promise so our service pays;
But Anacreon's true to me;)
He for this will set me free.

Let him do so, 'tis all one;
I from him will not be gone:
Servant, I with him will stay:
For what use to me to stray
O'er the hills, and o'er the fields,
And whatever nature yields,
Sitting on the idle boughs,
And on rustic food carouse?
Now indeed sweet bread I eat,
Snatching from his hands the treat,
From the hands of Anacreon:
And his wine, too, is my own;

Whereof I am free to sup,
Being partner of his cup:
And, perhaps, I dance; and spread
A gentle wing above his head;
And, not without a kiss, retire
To sleep upon the golden lyre.

All you have, and now be gone:
By your seeking I am grown,
Stranger, but 'tis seldom so,
More loquacious than a crow.

ODE X.

['Twas a youth, that Cupid sold]

'Twas a youth, that Cupid sold,
(To dally thus with Cupid, bold!)
But a waxen Cupid: I
Inquir'd of him, then standing by,
“What will you for this image take?”
Then he said, “For the God's sake,”
(And in the Dorick tongue he spake,)
“I sell him at what price you will;
“Not with coin to pay my skill,
“For I these figures not create:
“No, I like not, at any rate,
“With Cupid, who is false, t' abide;
“With Cupid, never satisfied.”

“Give him to me, then; give him me,
“For this drachm; and he shall be
“At my board, companion free.”

Now then, Cupid, haste t' inspire
Me with love's immortal fire:
Or, to say the truth, you go
To the fiery hearth below.

ODE XI.

[“You grow old apace,” they say]

“You grow old apace,” they say,
(Thus with me the women play,)
“O Anacreon, you grow old:
“Take this glass now, and behold
“How your hairs have fall'n away:
“Is this an age for love to play?”

Troth, what to my hair pertains,
If it be gone, or it remains,
Scarce I know: but I know this,
'Tis now time to think of bliss:
Bliss, which is to me more dear,
Inasmuch as death is near.

ODE XII.

[What will you, that I do to you]

What will you, that I do to you,
Prattling Swallow? what is due
For this, thy idle chirruping?
Will you, that I take your wing,
And with the scissors cut away?
Or rather that within you slay,
Your tongue, of old as Tereus did,
And after evil so forbid?
Why, from out my happy dreams,
Fill'd with the best of gentle themes,
Hast thou, by thy early lay,
Soft Bathylla stol'n away?

ODE XIII.

[These men say, that Attys cryed]

These men say, that Attys cryed
In the clefts and mountains wide
To mild Cybele, raging mad
For that he did what she forbade.

And these again, that by the brink
Of Claros, they who stoop and drink,
(Claros divinely deep and clear,
To Daphne-bearing Phœbus dear,)
The wave, that giveth prophecy,
Struck with madness raging cry.

But I, with like and happier fate,
With graceful Bacchus saturate,
Aye, and with flowing flowery oil,
The grateful earth's most lovely spoil;
And with a female friend, whose love
Doth place me Deities above;
(For why should madness be forbade?)
I will, I will, I say, be mad.

ODE XIV.

[Yes, I wish, I wish to love]

Yes, I wish, I wish to love:
Cupid of old the thought did move;
But I, that had no prudent mind,
To my true int'rest then was blind,
And nothing to his speech inclin'd.

Then he lift up his bow to view,
And his golden quiver too:
Then he provok'd me to the fight;
And I arm'd me for my right:
My shining breast-plate I put on,
And, like a new Achilles, shone,
And shield and spear I brought with me,
To wrest from Love the victory.

He threw, and I too threw my dart:
But soon the God had play'd his part:
No other darts he had to throw:
Then took it ill, the angry foe!

And threw himself, i' th' shape of a dart,
Into the middle of my heart:
Life and body then did part.

In vain I held my shield on high:
Why outwards should we fortify,
When the war within doth lie?

ODE XV.

['Tis to me no care, the gold]

'Tis to me no care, the gold
By the Sardian Monarch told:
Gold I laugh at, as my foe:
What have I with kings to do?

'Tis enough for me, I think,
That my beard its ointment drink.
'Tis enough, around my head
That the rose its sweetness shed:
'Tis care enough, what lives to day;
And let to-morrow have its way.

Now the time is fresh and gay:
Let us drink, and let us play;
Let us to Lyæus pour;
Lest, when disease is at the door,
He bid us, that we drink no more.

ODE XVI.

[You may paint the Thebish fights]

You may paint the Thebish fights,
While he of Phrygian battle writes:
But I of other warfare speak,
To which those ancient wars were weak.

No armed horse has me undone,
No footmen, nor no navies won:
But armies of another kind,
Finding traitors in my mind,
From beauteous eyes have struck me blind.

ODE XVII.

[Vulcan, that brave silver take]

Vulcan, that brave silver take,
And carve it nobly for my sake;
Carve me a bowl, and carve it so,
That I my native thoughts may know:
Let me not see there panoply;
For what are wars, or fights to me?
But make it hollow, make it deep;
An ocean of brave wine to keep.

Carve me upon it neither stars,
Nor the bright-shining Waggoners,
Nor fierce Orion, full of woe:
What with the Pleiads should I do?
What with Boötes' foolish lights?
A braver thirst my soul invites:
Make me soft vines, and o'er the bowl
Let the swelling fruitage roll;

And the golden deities,
That are to Bacchus true allies,
Beating the earth with steps of love,
Cupid, and Bathyllus move.

ODE XVIII.

[Make me, lovely artisan]

Make me, lovely artisan,
Make me what you nobly can,
(And all your wit, to grave it, bring;)
A golden goblet of the Spring;
A graceful cup, whereon disclose
The hour, that brings the blooming rose;
The flowing metal simply grave,
That I a heavenly cup may have.
And I exhort, no foreign rites,
Nor hateful story, cruel fights,
But Jove's immortal seed design,
Bacchus, who gave the purple wine;
And Venus, who doth smile and sway
With shout and dance the marriage day;
And Cupid, of all armour free;
The laughing Graces let me see
Under a vine of shady leaf,
The happy vineyard's ample chief:

And graceful boys together bring,
The fair companions of the Spring;
But, noble Sculptor, take thou care,
Apollo be not playing there.

Alluding to the fable of Hyacinth.

ODE XIX.

[The Earth has drunk e'er since her birth]

The Earth has drunk e'er since her birth,
And the Trees drink in the Earth,
And the Sea drinks in the Skies,
And the Sun with either vies,
And drinks the Sea, and, that being done,
Then the Moon drinks in the Sun.

Why then, my friends, why may not I
Drink, since I am, like Nature dry?

ODE XIX.

A SECOND VERSION.

[The dark Earth drinks, and then the Trees]

The dark Earth drinks, and then the Trees
Drink her, and then the flowing Seas
Drink the wide Air, and then the Sun
Drinks up the Sea, and, that being done,
The thirsty Moon doth drink the Sun.

What harm, then, O Companions, think,
That I myself delight to drink?

ODE XX.

[Stood Niobe, of old, a stone]

Stood Niobe, of old, a stone
Meander's mountain bank upon:
And thou, Pandion's child, didst fly
A restless swallow through the sky.

What should I wish? what fatal change,
If winged fiery thought should range?
My fair, a mirror I would be,
That you might always look on me;
Your inner garment, to be borne,
My love, by you both eve and morn;
The water too, wherein you lave;
What better fortune could I have?
Or ointment delicate and choice,
Wherewith anointed you rejoice;
Or else the girdle lightly prest
Underneath the tender breast;

Or separate pearl upon your neck;
Or, since to you I am a wreck,
And lost in love, your sandal be,
Only, that you may tread on me.

ODE XXI.

[Give me, O ye women, give]

Give me, O ye women, give
Of wine, that I may drink, and live;
That I may drink a mighty draught:
For I of Summer's heat have quaff'd
So deeply, that I scarce survive.

Give me of those flowers too;
For the flowers, that you view
Wreathed on my head, are dry;
And with my burning forehead die:
But, O then, my head, the while,
What shall the heat of love beguile?
To what shelter shalt thou fly?

ODE XXII.

[Bathylla, to the shade repair]

Bathylla, to the shade repair:
Behold, the tree above how fair!
And gently shakes its woodland hair,
Making murmur to the air:
And, beside, Persuasion's spring
Warbling music, too, doth bring!

Who then, that saw, would e'er pass by
Love's very shade, and melody?

ODE XXIII.

[If heaps of ruddy gold could give]

If heaps of ruddy gold could give
To brief-enduring men to live,
Then would I use unceasing pain
To get, and keep the precious bane:
That death, when he should come to me,
Might straight pass onward with his fee!

But since to man there is no power
Life to redeem one single hour,
Why should I grieve, and why lament
In vain, at that assur'd event?
For, if to die be our decree,
Pray, what can gold then profit me?

Be't mine to drink the purple bowl,
With lovely wine to soothe the soul;
And mix, a concord quite divine,
The words of friendship with my wine;

And, maugre fate's unerring blow,
The charms of female love to know,
Love, the most precious gift below!

ODE XXIV.

[Since I am mortal here below]

Since I am mortal here below,
While through the path of life I go,
The time that has been, true, I know;
That I know: but who has known,
What time henceforth shall make his own?

Loose me, then, O heavy care:
I to thee am not the heir;
I have nought with thee to do:
But ere yet to the shades I go,
Let me laugh, and let me sing,
Let me dance to the wired string,
Let me with Lyæus be,
And with beauteous Venus free:
Care, I have nought to do with thee.

ODE XXV.

[Then, when I drink pure wine, my care]

Then, when I drink pure wine, my care
Sleeps, or disperses into air:
And, pray, what need of care to me,
Of groans, or of anxiety?
For, think as gravely as I can,
Still I must take the fate of man;
And die: what need then to deceive
The fleeting life, and live to grieve?

'Tis better far, and 'tis my fate
To live, and drink in gentle state;
To soothe, not drown, the thoughtful soul
In fair Lyæus' golden bowl:
And throw a rose into the wine,
To make the purple flood divine:
Let joy mount up, and care decline!

ODE XXVI.

[When into me great Bacchus flows]

When into me great Bacchus flows,
He gives to sleep a host of woes:
He gives me to believe I hold
Of Crœsus the immortal gold:
Then long I lovelily to sing,
More happy than the Lydian king;
And, crown'd with ivy, lie at large,
Taking of earth no careful charge;
With joy and purple Bacchus fraught,
I kick the universe in thought!

Arm ye who will, but I will drink;
A better warfare, as I think:
Bring me, O boy, my golden cup,
For I will drink a vineyard up;
I will: for not on honour's bed
I mean to rest my happy head—
'Tis better to be drunk, than dead.

ODE XXVII.

[The son of Jove, when Bacchus kind]

The son of Jove, when Bacchus kind,
Who gently soothes the troubled mind,
When he into my soul doth flow,
Who did the purple wine bestow,
He teaches me to dance, and sing,
More happy than the Lydian king.

I, who my time in cups employ,
Possess a soft and graceful joy,
For Venus, daughter of the sea,
With song and timbrel charmeth me,
She smiles upon me, like the Spring,
A beauteous girl, too, she doth bring—
Again I burn to dance, and sing,
More happy than the Lydian king.

ODE XXVIII.

[Best of Painters, hear my prayer]

Best of Painters, hear my prayer,
Best of Painters, now prepare,
Master of the Rhodian art,
To paint the mistress of my heart,
Tho' she be absent, yet attend,
And paint from me my lovely friend.

Paint me the hair in tender state,
The hair both black and delicate,
And, if art so far can dare,
Breathing odours through the air;
And paint me from the perfect brow
The pure and ivory forehead now,
Only more holy, chaste, and fair,
O'ershaded by the violet hair.

For me the eyebrow neither part,
Nor wholly mingle by thy art;

But like herself the brows design,
Undiscernibly to join;
The circling eyelids black as night
Make for my divine delight;
And make the eye of living fire,
The soul and fountain of desire,
At once, like arm'd Minerva's, grey,
Shedding feminine dismay,
And wet, like beauty's queen above,
And trembling with inconstant love.

Paint me the cheeks, and arched nose,
Let milk be mingled with the rose:
Paint me the lip, persuasion's throne,
And pouting to be kiss'd anon.

Paint me the delicate chin below;
And let the neck like marble glow,
Stately, and fair as nascent day,
And every grace around it play.

And, Painter, what may yet remain,
Stole her in robe of purple grain,
Through which some part of her may shine
Of all, that's lovely and divine:
Enough: her very self I see:
Picture, perhaps, thou'lt speak to me!

[_]

There is no version of Ode XXIX.

ODE XXX.

[The Muses took the God of Love]

The Muses took the God of Love,
And flowery bands around him wove,
And, when they had disarm'd him so,
To Beauty gave the captive foe:
And Venus with a golden fee
Now seeks to set her Cupid free.

What then? if any loose the God,
He will not leave his new abode;
There will he stay, contentedly—
A bondsman he has learnt to be.

ODE XXXI.

[Let me, by the Gods I pray]

Let me, by the Gods I pray,
Let me drink the live-long day,
Let in full cups the wine be had,
For I will, I will be mad!

Was not Alcmæon mad? and he,
Orestes, theme of tragedy?
They slew their mothers: by my sword
No blood has ever yet been pour'd:
I drink dark wine, in ivy clad:
For I will, I will be mad!

And Hercules was mad, we know;
Who shook the Iphitéan bow:
And was not Ajax also mad,
Who, in his iron armour clad,
The sword of Hector wildly shook,
And on his shield, like thunder, strook?

But I, who hold a cup, and bear
A peaceful garland on my hair,
(Nor bow, nor sword of me are had,)
I will, I will, I say, be mad!

ODE XXXII.

[If every leaf of every tree]

If every leaf of every tree
The power to count were plac'd in thee;
If every wave of every sea;
You might then count, and you alone,
The world of loves, that I have known.

For first at learned Athens score
Fifty loves, and fifteen more:
And, after that, at Corinth write
A very army of delight;
So many loves, why, who can tell,
Where so enchanting women dwell?

By Lesbian, and Ionian flames,
The Carian, and the Rhodian dames,
Pray, how is the account encreas'd?
Two thousand loves the very least.

What do you say? what always love?
Ah! but the bill will larger prove:
What Syros, and Canopus hold,
My tender loves I have not told;
Nor yet, O Crete, what dwell in thee,
Where in a hundred cities free
Love holds his rites and mystery.

What then? you wish me, too, to tell
Those, that beyond the Gades dwell;
Of Bactrians, and of Indians more?
(For darker passions I adore,)
These 'tis impossible to score.

ODE XXXIII.

[You, O lovely swallow, fly]

You, O lovely swallow, fly,
Annual, through the laughing sky,
Every year our meadows seek,
With the musick of your beak,
And build your nest in Summer-time,
Herald of the flowery prime:
But, when pallid Winter throws
Heaps of rain, and floods of snows,
And chills, disconsolate, the air,
To Nile, or Memphis you repair.

But, always, Love, a foe to rest,
In my heart constructs a nest;
He is no annual architect,
Nor heat, nor cold can him affect;
He always builds; and thence there springs
Now a small Love, endued with wings;

One in the egg is yet; and one
Half from the broken egg is gone;
And always a small clamour springs
Of peeping Loves, that ask their wings.
The greater Loves, me to distress,
Feed, and bring forth to flight, the less;
And these, when to full age they grow,
Again breed others to my woe;
So that, the live-long year, I find,
In me Love propagates his kind.

And, then, what remedy can be
To this, my infelicity?
I have not strength, alas! to bear
So many Loves, that fill the air
With tender cries, and murmuring care!

ODE XXXIV.

[Fly me not, because you see]

Fly me not, because you see
That my hair is white, nor be
Therefore adverse to my suit:
Why should we scorn th' autumnal fruit?
Or is it fit your tender years,
In which the flower of youth appears,
Should my consort so disdain?

You may see in garlands, plain,
With what grace the lilies shine,
When with roses they entwine.

ODE XXXV.

[This bull, O boy, appears to me]

This bull, O boy, appears to me,
Surely, Jupiter to be;
Upon his broad back he doth bear
The woman of Sidonia fair;
He passes through the Ocean wide,
And cuts with cloven hoof the tide.

For, sure, no other bull but he,
Parted from the herd, can be,
Who thus can navigate the sea:
Look at the burthen he doth bear!
No, boy, this bull is Jupiter!

ODE XXXVI.

[Teach me no laws, or laws like these]

Teach me no laws, or laws like these:
Why should the rhetorician's pleas
Disturb my soul? what gain is here?
No, such are for the learned ear,
To whom their wrangling's sweet and clear.

Rather teach me how to drink
The bowl of Bacchus; that, I think,
Is wisdom: teach me how to play
With the golden Venus gay,
Dancing down the Summer's day.

With silver hairs my head is crown'd;
Then let a gentle health go round:
Give me water; pour, O boy,
Wine, to fill my soul with joy;
Lull, O lull my soul with wine,
The day to me not long will shine,
And in the grave no joys are mine.

ODE XXXVII.

[Behold, how on approaching Spring]

Behold, how on approaching Spring,
The Graces lovely roses fling;
Behold, how Ocean's wave doth lie
In gentle fair serenity;
Behold, how floats the duck; behold,
How the wise crane his flight doth hold;
And Titan lifts his lamp on high,
And pours the golden deity!

Damp shades of clouds are driven away,
Man's labours shine in open day;
Earth into fruit now breaks; and now
The graceful olive's budding bough;
And swells great Bacchus' juicy tree:
Behold, the world's felicity!
Through leaf and branch, in timely pride,
All fruit doth swell, and flourish wide!

ODE XXXVIII.

[Aged I am, and yet, I think]

Aged I am, and yet, I think,
More than the youthful bands I drink:
And, if need were for me to dance,
With sprightly youth I would advance:
I for a leading sceptre hold
A flaggon of life-breathing gold,
With wine to charm the purple God:
For nought avails to hold a rod.

He, who in battle taketh glee;
Why let him; he may fight for me:
My cup, O boy! and pour the wine
Honied, and like Spring divine:
For, though 'tis true that I am old,
By age I will not be control'd;
Pour the ripe flood, and I, meanwhile,
Will dance in old Silenus' style!

ODE XXXIX.

[Lo, when I drink the purple wine]

Lo, when I drink the purple wine,
The pleasures of the heart are mine:
Then I begin with joy to sing
The Muses, and the sacred spring.

When I drink wine, I dance and play;
Care from my heart is snatch'd away;
Care, and all anxious counsels flee
To the winds, that sweep the sea.

When I drink wine, the jolly God
Touches me with his purple rod;
For me does ev'ry sweet employ,
Flowery airs, and winy joy.

When I drink wine, my careless hours
I pass in weaving crowns of flowers;

Garlands upon my head I place,
And praise of life the tranquil grace.

When I drink wine, with odorous oil
Myself I bathe, the Syrian spoil;
Withhold a girl, too, in my arms,
And sing of Love's almighty charms.

When I drink wine, and gaily sup
Of a deep, big-bellied cup,
My mind I pleasure with the truth,
And sweet speech of ingenuous youth.

When I drink wine, this doth remain
To me, alone, of all my gain;
That what I drink I take with me,
Death being all men's destiny.

ODE XL.

[Love amid the roses play'd]

Love amid the roses play'd,
Of rosy thorns no whit afraid,
But had not the wit to see
Amid' the flowers a sleeping bee;
Stung by the bee, i' th' finger stung,
The meadows with his outcry rung.

Running, flying, he repair'd
To fair Venus, golden-hair'd,
“O I am lost, Mamma!” he said,
“O I am lost, and I am dead!
“A little winged serpent hath
“Struck me in his fiery wrath!
“A serpent, O Mamma,” said he,
“Whom countrymen do call a bee.”

But then she said, “If thus the sting
“Of a bee such pain doth bring,
“How do you think they grieve, belike,
“O Love, most wretched, whom you strike?”

ODE XLI.

[Let us drink the joyous wine]

Let us drink the joyous wine,
Painting Bacchus on the harp;
Bacchus, finder of the Choir,
Loving the immortal Song,
Nourish'd up with Love, and held
To the heart of Venus dear.

By whom joyous drinking comes,
By whom favour, too, is born,
By whom evil mournings cease,
By whom sorrow is subdued.

Then, the cup, discretely pour'd,
Let the gentle youths present;
And unmixed sorrow fly
To the wind-created storm.

Then, the cup let us accept;
And our wrinkled cares dismiss:

For what benefit to you,
By solicitude disturb'd?
Have we known what e'er shall be?
Life to men is wholly dark.

Full of wine, I love to dance,
And, with ointments bath'd, to play,
With the lovely youth engag'd,
And with lovely women too:
Let it be their care who will,
What the worth may be of care.

Joyous let us quaff the wine,
And paint Bacchus on the harp.

ODE XLII.

[I love the choirs of Bacchus gay]

I love the choirs of Bacchus gay,
I love upon the lute to play,
Drinking with a gentle youth:
But what delights me most, in truth,
Is with a virgin to advance,
In the soft and winding dance,
When around her brows she sets
The hyacinthine coronets.

Envy to me is hardly known,
My heart with envy shall not groan:
The arrows of that tongue I fly,
Which is in love with calumny;
Let not such approach me nigh!
Wars, that in our cups are made,
This is the vile Thracian's trade:
My heart with softer thoughts is sway'd,

Drinking in the feast of love:
With a virgin let me move,
With a virgin, whose soft breast
Hardly is by love exprest,
Dancing to the wiry song:
Come, O dearest, come along!
Could we to Nestor's age prolong
Our life, that life would not be long.

ODE XLIII.

[Happy thee, O grasshopper]

Happy thee, O grasshopper,
Thus from out the tops of trees
Supping up the slender dew,
As a king too, singing sweet,
Happy we must herald thee:
For they all, they all are thine,
All, that thou in fields behold'st,
And whate'er the hours produce.

Thou art of the shepherds friend,
In no wise despoiling ought.
Thou of men art honoured too,
Prophet of the Summer sweet.

Thee indeed the Muses love,
And Apollo loves thee too,
Giving thee a slender voice,
Age moreover wears not thee.

Wise, and native of the earth,
Fond of hymns, and wanting care,
Wanting blood, and slaughter too,
Thou unto the Gods art like!

ODE XLIV.

[I seem'd, 'twas in a dream indeed]

I seem'd, 'twas in a dream indeed,
With wings to course along the mead,
And Love, who seem'd to me to bear
Lead upon his ancles fair,
Love, always for his foe too light,
Pursued, and overtook my flight.

What may this dream portend to me?
Truly, I think, in this I see,
That I, entangled and perplex'd
With many Loves, and might'ly vex'd,
From all the rest being slipt away,
Of this one Love am made a prey.

ODE XLV.

[He, of Venus ill belov'd]

He, of Venus ill belov'd,
By the Lemnian forges, once,
Made the darts, the darts of love,
Taking iron for the toil:
But then Venus ting'd the darts
With the dew of honey sweet;
But then Cupid shed the gall.

But when Mars from battle came,
Shaking the prevailing spear,
Light he held of Cupid's dart.

But then Cupid, “This,” he cried,
“This is sharp, as you may find;”
And then Mars receiv'd the spear,
And then Venus softly laugh'd:

Gave then Mars a mighty groan:
“Sharp it is,” he cried; “away
“Take it;” but then Cupid smil'd,
“Have it in your heart,” he said.

ODE XLVI.

['Tis a pain to know not Love]

'Tis a pain to know not Love,
And 'tis a pain the boy to prove,
But, sure, the greatest pain of all,
In loving from our hope to fall.

Birth is nothing now to love,
Nor wisdom can more happy prove,
Nor manners: what then rules it here?
Silver to their eyes is dear.

May he die, the first of all,
Who first did Silver beauteous call:
'Tis by this no brother lives,
By this no parent now survives:
Wars, and slaughter come from this;
And, what is worse, from all our bliss,
We, that love, now fall by this.

ODE XLVII.

[A pleasant old man much I love]

A pleasant old man much I love;
And youth, that in the dance doth move.

For, when the old man dances free
With a youthful company,
Old he may be, his hair is grey:
But his mind is young, and gay!

ODE XLVIII.

[The lyre of Homer hither bear]

The lyre of Homer hither bear,
But without the chord of war:
Bring me the cups of brave decrees,
That I may mix my laws with these;
That I may dance, inspir'd by wine;
And above sober madness shine,
Singing to the chorded shell
A tale, that wine can bravest tell.

ODE XLIX.

[Best of painters, hear me now]

Best of painters, hear me now,
Hear the lyrick Muse; do thou
Paint, i' th' first place, cities fair,
Cities, that in triumph are;
And there the jocund Bacchæ place,
With the flute's resounding grace.

Then, if the wax will more admit,
More, that shall embellish it,
Paint me, all other themes above,
The forms, and ceremonies of Love.

ODE L.

[Who in labours maketh strong]

Who in labours maketh strong,
In love who maketh fearless, young,
Who makes us nobly dance, when wine
Is pour'd, a purple flood divine,
Walks that God upon the earth,
Who had of Jove his happy birth,
Bearing a cup to soothe the mind,
A gentle solace to mankind,
And keeping with especial care
In leaves the Vine's ripe offspring fair,
That nought the holy gift escape,
The clustering, and big-bellied grape.

That, when they cut the weighty fruit,
That would for Bacchus' table suit,
All may in gentle health remain,
And have a body, pure of stain,
And have a mind, content and sweet,
The coming fruitful year to meet,
And Bacchus with great thanks to greet.

ODE LI.

[Who, then, here hath grav'd the sea?]

Who, then, here hath grav'd the sea?
What art, that soars to heaven free,
In madness, of a sacred mood,
Has pour'd upon this dish the flood?
Pour'd the flood, and waves, that flee
Rolling o'er the purple sea?
Nay, some immortal mind has laid,
A mind full oft to Heaven convey'd,
Venus herself, in tender state,
Upon the sea, a lovely weight,
And caus'd thereon the Goddess float,
From whom the Gods their being note.

Nay, he has shown her naked here,
Whom thus to see is full of fear;
Only the wave affects to hide
What is of Heaven the balmy pride;
And on the wave she wanders light,
As weeds o' th' sea, whose back is white;

She wanders on the gentle calm,
Giving her body, heav'nly balm,
And light o' th' sea, and Heaven's pride,
The floods and current to divide.

Above the rosy paps, below
The tender neck the waters flow,
This being the first and happy day,
Whereon she cuts her wat'ry way:
I' th' middle furrow of the sea,
Amid' the deep tranquillity,
Venus shines forth, and light begets,
As lilies 'mid dark violets.

And, also, on the silver, note
Upon the dancing dolphins float,
Treach'rous, though under tender face,
Desire and Love, with laughing grace:
And then a quire of fishes bow'd,
That all around the triumph croud;

That, diving headlong to the deep,
Before the eyes of Paphia keep,
And please her with their thronging play—
She laughs, and floats upon her way.

ODE LII.

[The grape, now ripe and dusky, bear]

The grape, now ripe and dusky, bear
Vigorous men, and virgins fair;
But only males the vintage throw
Into the mighty vat below:
Only males may tread the vine,
And thence express the purple wine;
Greatly 'plauding, all the while,
The ripe God, in the vintage style,
In hymns, that to the vat belong,
Praising him, who makes them strong,
Jocund into the vessels spy,
Where youthful Bacchus foameth high!

And then some old man, as is meet,
Dances gay with trembling feet;
And shakes, the while, his hoary hair,
Forgetting of his age the care:

And then a youth, and wet with wine,
And giv'n to love, by close design
Surprizes a ripe maiden, laid
All a-loose upon the shade
Of leaves, and heavy-sunk in sleep—
A second vintage thinks to reap:
But, that of her not understood
Proves her no less fair, than good.

But, yet, the God, who gives the grape,
Lets her not so well escape;
For Bacchus, whose great praise be sung!
Wildly rages with the young.

ODE LIII.

[With the garland-bearing Spring]

With the garland-bearing Spring
Together let me chant and sing
The summer Rose: do thou my song,
Companion! make more sweet and strong.

For of Gods the breath it is;
For of men the holy bliss;
The Graces' ornament, in hours
When Love is crown'd with many flowers,
For Love delights in Summer tide—
The Rose is Paphia's playful pride.

Great argument of fables this;
The Muses' gracious plant it is;
Sweet or to him, who danger knows,
Walking in thorny paths, the Rose!
Or sweet the Rose to him, who takes
With gentle hand, and gently shakes

The dewy and the fragrant flower
Of Love, and scents the joyous power.

And also to the learned head
Great joy of the sweet Rose is bred,
At feasts and tables, ripe delights,
Especially at Bacchus' rites.

For what without the Rose can be?
The Morn we rosy-finger'd see;
And rosy-arm'd the Nymphs; and she,
Venus, daughter of the sea,
Who takes her praise of poets due,
For what? why, for her rosy hue.

Nay, to men, whom health has fled,
New health her rosy odours shed:
Nay more, when life itself hath fled;
She is of service to the dead:
And Time she binds by strength: the Rose
An age of gracious pleasure knows;
And yet with youthful odour glows.

Come, then; we will her being sing;
Whence heav'nly-blushing Roses spring:
When from the gently looking wave,
Sprinkled with dew, blithe Ocean gave,
And born of foam, Cythera brave;
And Jove, above, delivered plain
War-thundering Pallas from his brain,
A sight that, to Olympus dread!
Earth rear'd the godlike Rose's head,
And gave the wondrous birth to light,
Blushing, like Courts of Heaven, bright!

But, clothed whence in golden state?
The blessed Gods in Council sate,
The Rose with wisdom to create;
And, steeping Nectar, caus'd to rise
A flower, to match the crimson skies;
To flourish, queen-like, from the thorn—
The plant t' immortal Bacchus born!

ODE LIV.

[I, when the bands of youth I see]

I, when the bands of youth I see,
Again am young, again am free:
Then my whole youth returns to me.
Then, indeed, t' th' laughing quire
I wing my way with new desire.

Expect me then, Cybeba; shed
Crowns of roses on my head;
Crowns of roses; I abjure
This age, that has no charms t' allure;
That wisdom has no art t' enhance:
I abjure it, and advance,
A youth, into the youthful dance.

Then let the fruit of Bacchus' tree,
The purple fruit, be brought to me;
That you may see, and joy to see,

How old, and yet how young I am;
And mov'd with what a gen'rous flame.
Yes, you shall see me old, but strong,
Skill'd indeed i' th' lyrick song,
Skill'd indeed i' th' purple bowl,
And knowing well, as seasons roll,
With madness to engage the soul.

ODE LV.

[Horses, indeed, i' th' haunches bear]

Horses, indeed, i' th' haunches bear
The mark of him, whose wealth they are:
Burnt with fire the golden hair:
And the Parthians you may know,
By the tiara on their brow.

But when lovers I behold,
Straight their state to me is told:
By what mark, pray? you inquire:
By a mark of inward fire,
Burnt in by the God, Desire;
Within the soul, and yet so small,
You scarce can tell, by what they fall.

THE END.