The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 3

"Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay thee For this little waxen toy, Image of the Paphian boy?"

Thus I said, the other day, To a youth who past my way: "Sir," (he answered, and the while Answered all in Doric style,) "Take it, for a trifle take it; 'Twas not I who dared to make it; No, believe me, 'twas not I; Oh, it has cost me many a sigh, And I can no longer keep Little G.o.ds, who murder sleep!"

"Here, then, here," (I said with joy,) "Here is silver for the boy: He shall be my bosom guest, Idol of my pious breast!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine, Warm me with that torch of thine; Make me feel as I have felt, Or thy waxen frame shall melt: I must burn with warm desire, Or thou, my boy--in yonder fire.[2]

[1] It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simplicity of this ode, and the humor of the turn with which it concludes. I feel, indeed, that the translation must appear vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader.

[2] From this Longepierre conjectures, that, whatever Anacreon might say, he felt sometimes the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature.

ODE XII.

They tell how Atys, wild with love, Roams the mount and haunted grove;[1]

Cvbele's name he howls around, The gloomy blast returns the sound!

Oft too, by Claros' hallowed spring,[2]

The votaries of the laurelled king Quaff the inspiring, magic stream, And rave in wild, prophetic dream.

But frenzied dreams are not for me, Great Bacchus is my deity!

Full of mirth, and full of him, While floating odors round me swim, While mantling bowls are full supplied, And you sit blus.h.i.+ng by my side, I will be mad and raving too-- Mad, my girl, with love for you!

[1] There are many contradictory stories of the loves of Cybele and Atys.

It is certain that he was mutilated, but whether by his own fury, or Cybele's jealousy, is a point upon which authors are not agreed.

[2] This fountain was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated between Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The G.o.d had an oracle there.

ODE XIII.

I will, I will, the conflict's past, And I'll consent to love at last.

Cupid has long, with smiling art, Invited me to yield my heart; And I have thought that peace of mind Should not be for a smile resigned; And so repelled the tender lure, And hoped my heart would sleep secure.

But, slighted in his boasted charms, The angry infant flew to arms; He slung his quiver's golden frame, He took his bow; his shafts of flame, And proudly summoned me to yield, Or meet him on the martial field.

And what did I unthinking do?

I took to arms, undaunted, too; a.s.sumed the corslet, s.h.i.+eld, and spear, And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, All ye powers above!) I fought with Love! I fought with Love!

And now his arrows all were shed, And I had just in terror fled-- When, heaving an indignant sigh, To see me thus unwounded fly, And, having now no other dart, He shot himself into my heart![1]

My heart--alas the luckless day!

Received the G.o.d, and died away.

Farewell, farewell, my faithless s.h.i.+eld!

Thy lord at length is forced to yield.

Vain, vain, is every outward care, The foe's within, and triumphs there.

[1] Dryden has parodied this thought in the following extravagant lines:-- ----I'm all o'er Love; Nay, I am Love, Love shot, and shot so fast, He shot himself into my breast at last.

ODE XIV.[1]

Count me, on the summer trees, Every leaf that courts the breeze; Count me, on the foamy deep, Every wave that sinks to sleep; Then, when you have numbered these Billowy tides and leafy trees, Count me all the flames I prove, All the gentle nymphs I love.

First, of pure Athenian maids Sporting in their olive shades, You may reckon just a score, Nay, I'll grant you fifteen more.

In the famed Corinthian grove, Where such countless wantons rove,[2]

Chains of beauties may be found, Chains, by which my heart is bound; There, indeed, are nymphs divine, Dangerous to a soul like mine.

Many bloom in Lesbos' isle; Many in Ionia smile; Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast; Caria too contains a host.

Sum them all--of brown and fair You may count two thousand there.

What, you stare? I pray you peace!

More I'll find before I cease.

Have I told you all my flames, 'Mong the amorous Syrian dames?

Have I numbered every one, Glowing under Egypt's sun?

Or the nymphs, who blus.h.i.+ng sweet Deck the shrine of Love in Crete; Where the G.o.d, with festal play, Holds eternal holiday?

Still in cl.u.s.ters, still remain Gades' warm, desiring train:[3]

Still there lies a myriad more On the sable India's sh.o.r.e; These, and many far removed, All are loving--all are loved!

[1] The poet, in this catalogue of his mistresses, means nothing more, than, by a lively hyperbole, to inform us, that his heart, unfettered by any one object, was warm with devotion towards the s.e.x in general. Cowley is indebted to this ode for the hint of his ballad, called "The Chronicle."

[2] Corinth was very famous for the beauty and number of its courtesans.

Venus was the deity princ.i.p.ally wors.h.i.+pped by the people, and their constant prayer was, that the G.o.ds should increase the number of her wors.h.i.+ppers.

[3] The music of the Gaditanian females had all the voluptuous character of their dancing, as appears from Martial.

ODE XV.[1]

Tell me, why, my sweetest dove, Thus your humid pinions move, Shedding through the air in showers Essence of the balmiest flowers?

Tell me whither, whence you rove, Tell me all, my sweetest dove.