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Nor any tale of tragic fate, Which history trembles to relate!
No--cull thy fancies from above, Themes of heaven and themes of love.
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy, Distil the grape in drops of joy, And while he smiles at every tear, Let warm-eyed Venus dancing near, With spirits of the genial bed, The dewy herbage deftly tread.
Let Love be there, without his arms, In timid nakedness of charms;
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And all the Graces link'd with Love, Blus.h.i.+ng through the shadowy grove; While rosy boys disporting round, In circlets trip the velvet ground; But ah! if there Apollo toys, I tremble for my rosy boys!
_ODE XVI._
The Phrygian rock that braves the storm, Was once a weeping matron's form; And Progne, hapless, frantic maid, Is now a swallow in the shade.
Oh! that a mirror's form were mine, To sparkle with that smile divine; And like my heart I then should be, Reflecting thee, and only thee!
Or were I, love, the robe which flows O'er every charm that secret glows, In many a lucid fold to swim, And cling and grow to every limb!
Oh! could I, as the streamlet's wave, Thy warmly-mellowing beauties lave, Or float as perfume on thine hair,
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And breathe my soul in fragrance there!
I wish I were the zone, that lies Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs!
Or like those envious pearls that show So faintly round that neck of snow, Yes, I would be a happy gem, Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh! anything that touches thee.
Nay, sandals for those airy feet-- Thus to be press'd by thee were sweet!
_ODE XVII._
Now the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly, Bring me wine in br.i.m.m.i.n.g urns, Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!
Sunn'd by the meridian fire, Panting, languid I expire!
Give me all those humid flowers, Drop them o'er my brow in showers.
Scarce a breathing chaplet now Lives upon my feverish brow;
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Every dewy rose I wear Sheds its tears and withers there.
But for you, my burning mind!
Oh! what shelter shall I find?
Can the bowl, or floweret's dew, Cool the flame that scorches you?
_ODE XVIII._
If h.o.a.rded gold possess'd a power To lengthen life's too fleeting hour, And purchase from the land of death A little span, a moment's breath, How I would love the precious ore!
And every day should swell my store; That when the Fates would send their minion, To waft me off on shadowy pinion, I might some hours of life obtain, And bribe him back to h.e.l.l again.
But, since we ne'er can charm away The mandate of that awful day, Why do we vainly weep at fate, And sigh for life's uncertain date?
The light of gold can ne'er illume The dreary midnight of the tomb!
And why should I then pant for treasures?
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Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures; The goblet rich, the board of friends, Whose flowing souls the goblet blends: Mine be the nymph, whose form reposes Seductive on that bed of roses; And oh! be mine the soul's excess, Expiring in her warm caress!
_ODE XIX._
When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep.
Talk of monarchs! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men; Careless, o'er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king; Gives me wealthy Croesus' store, Can I, can I wish for more?
On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining, While my soul dilates with glee, What are kings and crowns to me?
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If before my feet they lay, I would spurn them all away!
Arm you, arm you, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight; Let me, oh my budding vine, Spill no other blood than thine.
Yonder br.i.m.m.i.n.g goblet see, That alone shall vanquish me.
Oh! I think it sweeter far To fall in banquet than in war!
_ODE XX._
When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy, The rosy harbinger of joy, Who, with the suns.h.i.+ne of the bowl, Thaws the winter of our soul; When to the inmost core he glides, And bathes it with his ruby tides, A flow of joy, a lively heat, Fires my brain, and wings my feet; 'Tis surely something sweet, I think, Nay, something heavenly sweet, to drink!
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Sing, sing of love, let music's breath Softly beguile our rapturous death, While, my young Venus, thou and I To the voluptuous cadence die!
Then waking from our languid trance, Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.
_ODE XXI._
