Why should I sing the mighty darts
Which fly to wound celestial hearts,
When sure the lay, with sweeter tone,
Can tell the darts that wound my own?
Still be Anacreon, still inspire
The descant of the Teian lyre:
Still let the nectar'd numbers float,
Distilling love in every note!
And when the youth, whose burning soul
Has felt the Paphian star's control,
When he the liquid lays shall hear,
His heart will flutter to his ear,
And drinking there of song divine,
Banquet on intellectual wine!
ODE LX.
Πολιοι μεν ἡμιν ηδε.
(The 56th in Barnes.)
GOLDEN hues of youth are fled;
Hoary locks deform my head.
Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,
All the flowers of life decay.
Withering age begins to trace
Sad memorials o'er my face;
Time has shed its sweetest bloom,
All the future must be gloom!
This awakes my hourly sighing;
Dreary is the thought of dying!
Pluto's is a dark abode,
Sad the journey, sad the road:
And, the gloomy travel o'er,
Ah! we can return no more!
Αγε δη, φερ' ημιν, ω παι.
(The 57th in Barnes.)
FILL me, boy, as deep a draught,
As e'er was fill'd, as e'er was quaff'd;
But let the water amply flow,
To cool the grape's intemperate glow;
For though the bowl's the grave of sadness,
Oh! be it ne'er the birth of madness!
No, banish from our board to-night
The revelries of rude delight!
To Scythians leave these wild excesses,
Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses!
And while the temperate bowl we wreathe,
Our choral hymns shall sweetly breathe,
Beguiling every hour along
With harmony of soul and song!
Τον Ερωτα γαρ τον άτρον.
(The 58th in Barnes.)
To Love, the soft and blooming child,
I touch the harp in descant wild;
To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers,
The boy, who breathes and blushes flowers!
To Love, for heaven and earth adore him,
And gods and mortals bow before him!
ODE LXIII.
Γουνουμαι σ' ελαφηβολε.
(The 60th in Barnes.)
HASTE thee, nymph, whose winged spear
Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer!
Dian, Jove's immortal child,
Huntress of the savage wild!
Goddess with the sun-bright hair!
Listen to a people's prayer.
Turn, to Lethe's river, turn,
There thy vanquish'd people mourn!
Come to Lethe's wavy shore,
There thy people's peace restore.
Thine their hearts, their altars thine
Dian! must they must they pine?
Εγω δ' ουτ' αν Αμαλίειης.
(The 68th in Barnes.)
RICH in bliss, I proudly scorn
The stream of Amalthea's horu!
Nor should I ask to call the throne
Of the Tartessian prince my own;
To totter through his train of years
The victim of declining fears.
One little hour of joy to me
Is worth a dull eternity!
(The 70th and 81st in Barnes.) Now Neptune's sullen month appears, The angry night-cloud swells with tears. And savage storms, infuriate driven, Fly howling in the face of heaven! Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom With roseate rays of wine illume: And while our wreaths of parsley spread Their fadeless foliage round our head, We'll hymn th' almighty power of wine, And shed libations on his shrine!
(The 75th, 82d, and 83d in Barnes.)
THEY WOve the lotus band to deck,
And fan with pensile wreath their neck
And every guest, to shade his head,
Three little breathing chaplets spread;
And one was of Egyptian leaf,
The rest were roses, fair and brief!
While from a golden vase profound,
To all on flowery beds around,
A goblet-nymph, of heavenly shape,
Pour'd the rich weepings of the grape
ODE LXVII.
(The 80th in Barnes.)
A BROKEN cake, with honey sweet,
Is all my spare and simple treat;
And while a generous bowl I crown
To float my little banquet down,
I take the soft, the amorous lyre,
And sing of love's entrancing fire!
In mirthful measures, light and free,
I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee'
(The 84th and 85th in Barnes.) WITH twenty chords my lyre is hung. And while I wake them all for thee, Thou, O virgin, wild and young, Disport'st in airy levity.
The nursling fawn, that in some shade Its antler'd mother leaves behind,
Is not more wantonly afraid,
More timid of the rustling wind '
ODE LXIX.
(The 87th in Barnes.)
FARE-thee-well, perfidious maid!
My soul, too long on earth delay'd,
Delay'd, perfidious girl! by thee,
Is now on wing for liberty.
I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,
Since thou hast ceas'd to love me here
ODE LXX.
(The 89th in Barnes.)
I BLOOM'D awhile, a happy flower,
Till Love approach'd one fatal hour,
And made my tender branches feel
The wounds of his avenging steel.
Then, then, I feel, like some poor willow
That tosses on the wintry billow!
ODE LXXI.
(The 93d in Barnes.)
MONARCH Love! resistless boy,
With whom the rosy Queen of Joy,
And nymphs, that glance ethereal blue,
Disporting tread the mountain-dew;
Propitious, oh! receive my sighs,
Which, burning with entreaty, rise,
That thou wilt whisper to the breast
Of her I love, thy soft behest;
And counsel her to learn from thee
The lesson thou hast taught to me.
Ah! if my heart no flattery tell,
Thou'lt own I've learn'd that lesson well
(The 101st in Barnes.)
SPIRIT of Love, whose tresses shine
Along the breeze, in golden twine;
Come, within a fragrant cloud,
Blushing with light, thy votary shroud;
And, on those wings that sparkling play,
Waft, oh! waft me hence away!
Love! my soul is full of thee,
Alive to all thy luxury.
But she, the nymph for whom I glow,
The pretty Lesbian, mocks my woe;
Smiles at the hoar and silver'd hues
Which Time upon my forehead strews
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