Once in each revolving year,Gentle bird! we find thee here.When Nature wears her summer-vest,Thou comest to weave thy simple nest;But when the chilling winter lowers.Again thou seekest the genial bowersOf Memphis, or the shores of Nile,Where sunny hours for ever smile.And thus thy pinion rests and roves,—Alas! unlike the swarm of Loves,That brood within this hapless breast,And never, never change their nest!Still every year, and all the year,They fix their fated dwelling here;And some their infant plumage try,And on a tender winglet fly;While in the shell, impregned with fires,Still lurk a thousand more desires;Some from their tiny prisons peeping,And some in formless embryo sleeping.Thus peopled, like the vernal groves,My breast resounds, with warbling Loves;One urchin imps the other's feather,Then twin-desires they wing together,And fast as they thus take their flight,Still other urchins spring to light.But is there then no kindly art,To chase these Cupids from my heart;Ah, no! I fear, in sadness fear,They will for ever nestle here!
Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms,Or tell the tale of Theban arms;With other wars my song shall burn,For other wounds my harp shall mourn.'Twas not the crested warrior's dart,That drank the current of my heart;Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,Have made this vanquished bosom bleed;No—'twas from eyes of liquid blue,A host of quivered Cupids flew;[1]And now my heart all bleeding liesBeneath that army of the eyes!
[1] The poets abound with conceits on the archery of the eyes, but few have turned the thought so naturally as Anacreon. Ronsard gives to the eyes of his mistressun petit camp d'amours.
We read the flying courser's nameUpon his side, in marks of flame;And, by their turbaned brows alone,The warriors of the East are known.But in the lover's glowing eyes,The inlet to his bosom lies;Through them we see the small faint mark,Where Love has dropt his burning spark!
As, by his Lemnian forge's flame,The husband of the Paphian dameMoulded the glowing steel, to formArrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;And Venus, as he plied his art,Shed honey round each new-made dart,While Love, at hand, to finish all,Tipped every arrow's point with gall;It chanced the Lord of Battles cameTo visit that deep cave of flame.'Twas from the ranks of war he rushed,His spear with many a life-drop blushed;He saw the fiery darts, and smiledContemptuous at the archer-child."What!" said the urchin, "dost thou smile?Here, hold this little dart awhile,And thou wilt find, though swift of flight,My bolts are not so feathery light."
Mars took the shaft—and, oh, thy look,Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took!—Sighing, he felt the urchin's art,And cried, in agony of heart,"It is not light—I sink with pain!Take—take thy arrow back again.""No," said the child, "it must not be;That little dart was made for thee!"
Yes—loving is a painful thrill,And not to love more painful stillBut oh, it is the worst of pain,To love and not be loved again!Affection now has fled from earth,Nor fire of genius, noble birth,Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile,From beauty's cheek one favoring smile.Gold is the woman's only theme,Gold is the woman's only dream.Oh! never be that wretch forgiven—Forgive him not, indignant heaven!Whose grovelling eyes could first adore,Whose heart could pant for sordid ore.Since that devoted thirst began,Man has forgot to feel for man;The pulse of social life is dead,And all its fonder feelings fled!War too has sullied Nature's charms,For gold provokes the world to arms;And oh! the worst of all its arts,It renders asunder loving hearts.
'Twas in a mocking dream of night—I fancied I had wings as lightAs a young birds, and flew as fleet;While Love, around whose beauteous feet,I knew not why, hung chains of lead,Pursued me, as I trembling fled;And, strange to say, as swift as thought,Spite of my pinions, I was caught!What does the wanton Fancy meanBy such a strange, illusive scene?I fear she whispers to my breast,That you, sweet maid, have stolen its rest;That though my fancy, for a while,Hath hung on many a woman's smile,I soon dissolved each passing vow,And ne'er was caught by love till now!
[1] Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet married very late in life. But I see nothing in the ode which alludes to matrimony, except it be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I agree in the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure to marry.
Armed with hyacinthine rod,(Arms enough for such a god,)Cupid bade me wing my pace,And try with him the rapid race.O'er many a torrent, wild and deep,By tangled brake and pendent steep.With weary foot I panting flew,Till my brow dropt with chilly dew.And now my soul, exhausted, dying,To my lip was faintly flying;And now I thought the spark had fled,When Cupid hovered o'er my head,And fanning light his breezy pinion,Rescued my soul from death's dominion;[2]Then said, in accents half-reproving."Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"
[1] The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love.
[2] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."—LA FOSSE.
Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves,Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;And while in luxury's dream I sink,Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!In this sweet hour of revelryYoung Love shall my attendant be—Drest for the task, with tunic roundHis snowy neck and shoulders bound,Himself shall hover by my side,And minister the racy tide!
Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll,Our life is hurrying to the goal;A scanty dust, to feed the wind,Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.Then wherefore waste the rose's bloomUpon the cold, insensate tomb?Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath,Affect the still, cold sense of death?Oh no; I ask no balm to steepWith fragrant tears my bed of sleep:But now, while every pulse is glowing,Now let me breathe the balsam flowing;Now let the rose, with blush of fire,Upon my brow in sweets expire;And bring the nymph whose eye hath powerTo brighten even death's cold hour.Yes, Cupid! ere my shade retire,To join the blest elysian choir;With wine, and love, and social cheer,I'll make my own elysium here!
[1] We here have the poet, in his true attributes, reclining upon myrtles, with Cupid for his cup-bearer. Some interpreters have ruined the picture by making [Greek: Eros] the name of his slave. None but Love should fill the goblet of Anacreon. Sappho, in one of her fragments, has assigned this office to Venus.
Hither, Venus, queen of kisses.This shall be the night of blisses;This the night, to friendship dear.Thou shalt be our Hebe here.Fill the golden brimmer high,Let it sparkle like thine eye;Bid the rosy current gush.Let it mantle like thy blush.Goddess, hast thou e'er aboveSeen a feast so rich in love?Not a soul that is not mine!Not a soul that is not thine!
'Twas noon of night, when round the poleThe sullen Bear is seen to roll;And mortals, wearied with the day,Are slumbering all their cares away;An infant, at that dreary hour,Came weeping to my silent bower,And waked me with a piteous prayer,To shield him from the midnight air."And who art thou," I waking cry,"That bid'st my blissful visions fly?""Ah, gentle sire!" the infant said,"In pity take me to thy shed;Nor fear deceit; a lonely childI wander o'er the gloomy wild.Chill drops the rain, and not a rayIllumes the drear and misty way!"
I heard the baby's tale of woe:I heard the bitter night-winds blow;And sighing for his piteous fate,I trimmed my lamp and oped the gate.'Twas Love! the little wandering sprite,His pinion sparkled through the night,I knew him by his bow and dart;I knew him by my fluttering heart.Fondly I take him in, and raiseThe dying embers' cheering blaze;Press from his dank and clinging hairThe crystals of the freezing air,And in my hand and bosom holdHis little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray,Had warmed his anxious fears away;"I pray thee," said the wanton child,(My bosom trembled as he smiled,)"I pray thee let me try my bow,For through the rain I've wandered so,That much I fear the midnight showerHas injured its elastic power."The fatal bow the urchin drew;Swift from the string the arrow flew;As swiftly flew as glancing flame,And to my inmost spirit came!"Fare thee well," I heard him sayAs laughing wild he winged away,"Fare thee well, for now I knowThe rain has not relaxt my bow;It still can send a thrilling dart,As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"
Oh thou, of all creation blest,Sweet insect, that delight'st to restUpon the wild wood's leafy tops,To drink the dew that morning drops,And chirp thy song with such a glee,That happiest kings may envy thee.Whatever decks the velvet field,Whate'er the circling seasons yield,Whatever buds, whatever blows,For thee it buds, for thee it grows.Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear,To him thy friendly notes are dear;For thou art mild as matin dew;And still, when summer's flowery hueBegins to paint the bloomy plain,We hear thy sweet prophetic strain;Thy sweet prophetic strain we hear,And bless the notes and thee revere!The Muses love thy shrilly tone;Apollo calls thee all his own;'Twas he who gave that voice to thee,'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.
Unworn by age's dim decline,The fadeless blooms of youth are thine.Melodious insect, child of earth,In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth;Exempt from every weak decay,That withers vulgar frames away;With not a drop of blood to stain,The current of thy purer vein;So blest an age is past by thee,Thou seem'st—a little deity!
[1] In a Latin ode addressed to the grasshopper, Rapin has preserved some of the thoughts of our author:—
Oh thou, that on the grassy bedWhich Nature's vernal hand has spread,Reclinest soft, and tunest thy song,The dewy herbs and leaves among!Whether thou lyest on springing flowersDrunk with the balmy morning-showersOr, etc.
Cupid once upon a bedOf roses laid his weary head;Luckless urchin not to seeWithin the leaves a slumbering bee;The bee awaked—with anger wildThe bee awaked, and stung the child.Loud and piteous are his cries;To Venus quick he runs, he flies;"Oh mother!—I am wounded through—I die with pain—in sooth I do!Stung by some little angry thing,Some serpent on a tiny wing—A bee it was—for once, I know,I heard a rustic call it so."Thus he spoke, and she the while,Heard him with a soothing smile;Then said, "My infant, if so muchThou feel the little wild-bee's touch,How must the heart, ah, Cupid be,The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"
[1] Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyl; but is very inferior, I think, to his original, in delicacy of point and naïveté of expression. Spenser, in one of his smaller compositions, has sported more diffusely on the same subject. The poem to which I allude begins thus:—
Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumberingAll in his mother's lap;A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring,About him flew by hap, etc.
If hoarded gold possest the powerTo lengthen life's too fleeting hour,And purchase from the hand of deathA little span, a moment's breath,How I would love the precious ore!And every hour should swell my store;That when death came, with shadowy pinion,To waft me to his bleak dominion,I might, by bribes, my doom delay,And bid him call some distant day.But, since not all earth's golden storeCan buy for us one bright hour more,Why should we vainly mourn our fate,Or sigh at life's uncertain date?Nor wealth nor grandeur can illumeThe silent midnight of the tomb.No—give to others hoarded treasures—Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures—The goblet rich, the board of friends,Whose social souls the goblet blends;[2]And mine, while yet I've life to live,Those joys that love alone can give.
[1] Fontenelle has translated this ode, in his dialogue between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, where, on weighing the merits of both these personages, he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet.
[2] The goblet rich, the board of friends. Whose social soul the goblet blends.
This communion Of friendship, which sweetened the bowl of Anacreon, has not been forgotten by the author of the following scholium, where the blessings of life are enumerated with proverbial simplicity:
Of mortal blessing here the first is health,And next those charms by which the eye we move;The third is wealth, unwounding guiltless wealth,And then, sweet intercourse with those we love!
'Twas night, and many a circling bowlHad deeply warmed my thirsty soul;As lulled in slumber I was laid,Bright visions o'er my fancy played.With maidens, blooming as the dawn,I seemed to skim the opening lawn;Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew,We flew, and sported as we flew!
Some ruddy striplings, who lookt on—With cheeks that like the wine-god's shone,Saw me chasing, free and wild,These blooming maids, and slyly smiled;Smiled indeed with wanton glee,Though none could doubt they envied me.And still I flew—and now had caughtThe panting nymphs, and fondly thoughtTo gather from each rosy lipA kiss that Jove himself might sip—When sudden all my dream of joys,Blushing nymphs and laughing boys,All were gone!—"Alas!" I said,Sighing for the illusion fled,"Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore,Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"[1]
[1] Dr. Johnson, in his preface to Shakespeare, animadverting upon the commentators of that poet, who pretended, in every little coincidence of thought, to detect an imitation of some ancient poet, alludes in the following words to the line of Anacreon before us: "I have been told that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream says, 'I cried to sleep again,' the author imitates Anacreon, who had, like any other man, the same wish on the same occasion."
Let us drain the nectared bowl,Let us raise the song of soulTo him, the god who loves so wellThe nectared bowl, the choral swell;The god who taught the sons of earthTo thread the tangled dance of mirth;Him, who was nurst with infant Love,And cradled in the Paphian grove;Him, that the Snowy Queen of CharmsSo oft has fondled in her arms.Oh 'tis from him the transport flows,Which sweet intoxication knows;With him, the brow forgets its gloom,And brilliant graces learn to bloom.
Behold!—my boys a goblet bear,Whose sparkling foam lights up the air.Where are now the tear, the sigh?To the winds they fly, they fly!Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking,Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!Say, can the tears we lend to thoughtIn life's account avail us aught?Can we discern with all our lore,The path we've yet to journey o'er?Alas, alas, in ways so dark,'Tis only wine can strike a spark!
Then let me quaff the foamy tide,And through the dance meandering glide;Let me imbibe the spicy breathOf odors chafed to fragrant death;Or from the lips of love inhaleA more ambrosial, richer gale!To hearts that court the phantom Care,Let him retire and shroud him there;While we exhaust the nectared bowl,And swell the choral song of soulTo him, the god who loves so wellThe nectared bowl, the choral swell!
How I love the festive boy,Tripping through the dance of joy!How I love the mellow sage,Smiling through the veil of age!And whene'er this man of yearsIn the dance of joy appears,Snows may o'er his head be flung,But his heart—his heart is young.
I know that Heaven hath sent me here,To run this mortal life's career;The scenes which I have journeyed o'er,Return no more—alas! no more!And all the path I've yet to go,I neither know nor ask to know.Away, then, wizard Care, nor thinkThy fetters round this soul to link;Never can heart that feels with meDescend to be a slave to thee!And oh! before the vital thrill,Which trembles at my heart is still,I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers,And gild with bliss my fading hours;Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom,And Venus dance me to the tomb!
When Spring adorns the dewy scene,How sweet to walk the velvet green,And hear the west wind's gentle sighs,As o'er the scented mead it flies!How sweet to mark the pouting vine,Ready to burst in tears of wine;And with some maid, who breathes but love,To walk, at noontide, through the grove,Or sit in some cool, green recess—Oh, is this not true happiness?
Yes, be the glorious revel mine,Where humor sparkles from the wine.Around me, let the youthful choirRespond to my enlivening lyre;And while the red cup foams along,Mingle in soul as well as song.Then, while I sit, with flowerets crowned,To regulate the goblets round.Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride,Be seated smiling by my side,And earth has not a gift or powerThat I would envy, in that hour.Envy!—oh never let its blightTouch the gay hearts met here tonight.Far hence be slander's sidelong wounds,Nor harsh dispute, nor discord's soundsDisturb a scene, where all should beAttuned to peace and harmony.
Come, let us hear the harp's gay noteUpon the breeze inspiring float,While round us, kindling into love,Young maidens through the light dance move.Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace,Sure such a life should never cease!
[1] The character of Anacreon is here very strikingly depicted. His love of social, harmonized pleasures, is expressed with a warmth, amiable and endearing.
While our rosy fillets shedFreshness o'er each fervid head,With many a cup and many a smileThe festal moments we beguile.And while the harp, impassioned flingsTuneful rapture from its strings,[1]Some airy nymph, with graceful bound,Keeps measure to the music's sound;Waving, in her snowy hand,The leafy Bacchanalian wand,Which, as the tripping wanton flies,Trembles all over to her sighs.A youth the while, with loosened hair,Floating on the listless air,Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone,A tale of woe, alas, his own;And oh, the sadness in his sigh.As o'er his lips the accents die!Never sure on earth has beenHalf so bright, so blest a scene.It seems as Love himself had comeTo make this spot his chosen home;—[2]And Venus, too, with all her wiles,And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles,All, all are here, to hail with meThe Genius of Festivity!
[1] Respecting the barbiton a host of authorities may be collected, which, after all, leave us ignorant of the nature of the instrument. There is scarcely any point upon which we are so totally uninformed as the music of the ancients. The authors extant upon the subject are, I imagine, little understood; and certainly if one of their moods was a progression by quarter-tones, which we are told was the nature of the enharmonic scale, simplicity was by no means the characteristic of their melody; for this is a nicety of progression of which modern music is not susceptible. The invention of the barbiton is, by Athenaeus, attributed to Anacreon.
[2] The introduction of these deities to the festival is merely allegorical. Madame Dacier thinks that the poet describes a masquerade, where these deities were personated by the company in masks. The translation will conform with either idea.
Buds of roses, virgin flowers,Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers,In the bowl of Bacchus steep,Till with crimson drops they weep.Twine the rose, the garland twine,Every leaf distilling wine;Drink and smile, and learn to thinkThat we were born to smile and drink.Rose, thou art the sweetest flowerThat ever drank the amber shower;Rose, thou art the fondest childOf dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.Even the Gods, who walk the sky,Are amorous of thy scented sigh.Cupid, too, in Paphian shades,His hair with rosy fillets braids,When with the blushing sister Graces,The wanton winding dance he traces.Then bring me, showers of roses bring,And shed them o'er me while I sing.Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine,Wreathing my brow with rose and vine,I lead some bright nymph through the dance,Commingling soul with every glance!
[1] This spirited poem is a eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty- fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes refers us, the rose is fancifully styled "the eye of flowers;" and the same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favors of the Muse "the roses of the Pleria."
Within this goblet, rich and deep,I cradle all my woes to sleep.Why should we breathe the sigh of fear,Or pour the unavailing tear?For death will never heed the sigh,Nor soften at the tearful eye;And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep,Must all alike be sealed in sleep.Then let us never vainly stray,In search of thorns, from pleasure's way;But wisely quaff the rosy wave,Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave;And in the goblet, rich and deep,Cradle our crying woes to sleep.
Behold, the young, the rosy Spring,Gives to the breeze her scented wing:While virgin Graces, warm with May;Fling roses o'er her dewy way.The murmuring billows of the deepHave languished into silent sleep;And mark! the flitting sea-birds laveTheir plumes in the reflecting wave;While cranes from hoary winter flyTo flutter in a kinder sky.Now the genial star of dayDissolves the murky clouds away;And cultured field, and winding stream,Are freshly glittering in his beam.
Now the earth prolific swellsWith leafy buds and flowery bells;Gemming shoots the olive twine,Clusters ripe festoon the vine;All along the branches creeping,Through the velvet foliage peeping,Little infant fruits we see,Nursing into luxury.
[1] The fastidious affectation of some commentators has denounced this ode as spurious. Degen pronounces the four last lines to be the patch-work of some miserable versificator, and Brunck condemns the whole ode. It appears to me, on the contrary, to be elegantly graphical: full of delicate expressions and luxuriant imagery.
'Tis true, my fading years decline,Yet can I quaff the brimming wine,As deep as any stripling fair,Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;And if, amidst the wanton crew,I'm called to wind the dance's clue,Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand,Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,But brandishing a rosy flask,The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask![1]
Let those, who pant for Glory's charms,Embrace her in the field of arms;While my inglorious, placid soulBreathes not a wish beyond this bowl.Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,And bathe me in its brimming wave.For though my fading years decay,Though manhood's prime hath past away,Like old Silenus, sire divine,With blushes borrowed from my wine.I'll wanton mid the dancing train,And live my follies o'er again!
[1] Phornutus assigns as a reason for the consecration of the thyrsus to Bacchus, that inebriety often renders the support of a stick very necessary.
When my thirsty soul I steep,Every sorrow's lulled to sleep.Talk of monarchs! I am thenRichest, 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,[1]While my soul expands with glee,What are kings and crowns to me?If before my feet they lay,I would spurn them all away;Arm ye, arm ye, men of might,Hasten to the sanguine fight;But letme, my budding vine!Spill no other blood than thine.Yonder brimming goblet see,That alone shall vanquish me—Who think it better, wiser farTo fall in banquet than in war,
[1] "The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus [says Montfaucon], because he formerly lay hid under that tree, or as others will have it, because its leaves resemble those of the vine." Other reasons for its consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, Barnes, etc.
When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy,The rosy harbinger of joy,Who, with the sunshine of the bowl,Thaws the winter of our soul—When to my 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,Calling up round me visions knownTo lovers of the bowl alone.
Sing, sing of love, let music's soundIn melting cadence float around,While, my young Venus, thou and IResponsive to its murmurs sigh.Then, waking from our blissful trance,Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.
When wine I quaff, before my eyesDreams of poetic glory rise;[2]And freshened by the goblet's dews,My soul invokes the heavenly Muse,When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er;I think of doubts and fears no more;But scatter to the railing windEach gloomy phantom of the mind.When I drink wine, the ethereal boy,Bacchus himself, partakes my joy;And while we dance through vernal bowers,Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers,In wine he makes my senses swim,Till the gale breathes of naught but him!
Again I drink,—and, lo, there seemsA calmer light to fill my dreams;The lately ruffled wreath I spreadWith steadier hand around my head;Then take the lyre, and sing "how blestThe life of him who lives at rest!"But then comes witching wine again,With glorious woman in its train;And, while rich perfumes round me rise,That seem the breath of woman's sighs,Bright shapes, of every hue and form.Upon my kindling fancy swarm,Till the whole world of beauty seemsTo crowd into my dazzled dreams!When thus I drink, my heart refines,And rises as the cup declines;Rises in the genial flow,That none but social spirits know,When, with young revellers, round the bowl,The old themselves grow young in soul!Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine,There's bliss in every drop of wine.All other blessings I have known,I scarcely dared to call my own;But this the Fates can ne'er destroy,Till death o'ershadows all my joy.
[1] Faber thinks this ode spurious; but, I believe, he is singular in his opinion. It has all the spirit of our author. Like the wreath which he presented in the dream, "it smells of Anacreon."
[2] Anacreon is not the only one [says Longepierre] whom wine has inspired with poetry. We find an epigram in the first book of the "Anthologia," which begins thus:—
If with water you fill up your glasses,You'll never write anything wise;For wine's the true horse of Parnassus.Which carries a bard to the skies!
Fly not thus my brow of snow,Lovely wanton! fly not so.Though the wane of age is mine,Though youth's brilliant flush be thine,Still I'm doomed to sigh for thee,Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!See, in yonder flowery braid,Culled for thee, my blushing maid,[1]How the rose, of orient glow,Mingles with the lily's snow;Mark, how sweet their tints agree,Just, my girl, like thee and me!
[1] In the same manner that Anacreon pleads for the whiteness of his locks, from the beauty of the color in garlands, a shepherd, in Theocritus, endeavors to recommend his black hair.
Away, away, ye men of rules,What have I do with schools?They'd make me learn, they'd make me think,But would they make me love and drink?Teach me this, and let me swimMy soul upon the goblet's brim;Teach me this, and let me twineSome fond, responsive heart to mine,For, age begins to blanch my brow,I've time for naught but pleasure now.
Fly, and cool, my goblet's glowAt yonder fountain's gelid flow;I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sinkThis soul to slumber as I drink.Soon, too soon, my jocund slave,You'll deck your master's grassy grave;And there's an end—for ah, you knowThey drink but little wine below!
[1] "This is doubtless the work of a more modern poet than Anacreon; for at the period when he lived rhetoricians were not known."—DEGEN.
Though this ode is found in the Vatican manuscript, I am much inclined to agree in this argument against its authenticity: for though the dawnings of the art of rhetoric might already have appeared, the first who gave it any celebrity was. Corax of Syracuse, and he flourished in the century after Anacreon.
When I behold the festive trainOf dancing youth, I'm young again!Memory wakes her magic trance,And wings me lightly through the dance.Come, Cybeba, smiling maid!Cull the flower and twine the braid;Bid the blush of summer's roseBurn upon my forehead's snows;And let me, while the wild and youngTrip the mazy dance along,Fling my heap of years away,And be as wild, as young as they.Hither haste, some cordial, soul!Help to my lips the brimming bowl;And you shall see this hoary sageForget at once his locks and age.He still can chant the festive hymn,He still can kiss the goblet's brim;[1]As deeply quaff, as largely fill,And play the fool right nobly still.
[1] Wine is prescribed by Galen, as an excellent medicine for old men: "Quod frigidos et humbribus expletos calefaciut," etc.; but Nature was Anacreon's physician.
There is a proverb in Eriphus, as quoted by Athenaeus, which says, "that wine makes an old man dance, whether he will or not."
Methinks, the pictured bull we seeIs amorous Jove—it must be he!How fondly blest he seems to bearThat fairest of Phoenician fair!How proud he breasts the foamy tide,And spurns the billowy surge aside!Could any beast of vulgar vein,Undaunted thus defy the main?No: he descends from climes above,He looks the God, he breathes of Jove!
[1] "This ode is written upon., a picture which represented the rape, of Europa."—MADAME DACIER.
It may probably have been a description of one of those coins, which the Sidonians struck off in honor of Europa, representing a woman carried across the sea by a bull. In the little treatise upon the goddess of Syria, attributed very' falsely to Lucian, there is mention of this coin, and of a temple dedicated by the Sidonians to Astarte, whom some, it appears, confounded with Europa.
While we invoke the wreathed spring,Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers,Whose breath perfumes the Olympian bowers;Whose virgin blush, of chastened dye,Enchants so much our mortal eye.When pleasure's spring-tide season glows.The Graces love to wreathe the rose;And Venus, in its fresh-blown leaves,An emblem of herself perceives.Oft hath the poet's magic tongueThe rose's fair luxuriance sung;And long the Muses, heavenly maids,Have reared it in their tuneful shades.When, at the early glance of morn,It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fenceTo cull the timid floweret thence,And wipe with tender hand awayThe tear that on its blushes lay!'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,And fresh inhale the spicy sighsThat from the weeping buds arise.
When revel reigns, when mirth is high,And Bacchus beams in every eye,Our rosy fillets scent exhale,And fill with balm the fainting gale.There's naught in nature bright or gay,Where roses do not shed their ray.When morning paints the orient skies,Her fingers burn with roseate dyes;[2]Young nymphs betray; the Rose's hue,O'er whitest arms it kindles thro'.In Cytherea's form it glows,And mingles with the living snows.
The rose distils a healing balm,The beating pulse of pain to calm;Preserves the cold inurnèd clay,[3]And mocks the vestige of decay:And when, at length, in pale decline,Its florid beauties fade and pine,Sweet as in youth, its balmy breathDiffuses odor even in death!Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung?Listen,—for thus the tale is sung.When, humid, from the silvery stream,Effusing beauty's warmest beam,Venus appeared, in flushing hues,Mellowed by ocean's briny dews;When, in the starry courts above,The pregnant brain of mighty JoveDisclosed the nymph of azure glance,The nymph who shakes the martial lance;—Then, then, in strange eventful hour,The earth produced an infant flower,Which sprung, in blushing glories drest.And wantoned o'er its parent breast.The gods beheld this brilliant birth,And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth!With nectar drops, a ruby tide,The sweetly orient buds they dyed,[4]And bade them bloom, the flowers divineOf him who gave the glorious vine;And bade them on the spangled thornExpand their bosoms to the morn.
[1] This ode is a brilliant panegyric on the rose. "All antiquity [says Barnes] has produced nothing more beautiful."
From the idea of peculiar excellence, which the ancients attached to this flower, arose a pretty proverbial expression, used by Aristophanes, according to Suidas "You have spoken roses."
[2] In the original here, he enumerates the many epithets of beauty, borrowed from roses, which were used by the poets. We see that poets were dignified in Greece with the title of sages: even the careless Anacreon, who lived but for love and voluptuousness, was called by Plato the wise Anacreon—fuit haec sapienta quondam.
[3] He here alludes to the use of the rose in embalming; and, perhaps (as Barnes thinks), to the rosy unguent with which Venus anointed the corpse of Hector.
[4] The author of the "Pervigilium Veneris" (a poem attributed to Catullus, the style of which appears to me to have all the labored luxuriance of a much later period) ascribes the tincture of the rose to the blood from the wound of Adonis.
He, who instructs the youthful crewTo bathe them in the brimmer's dew,And taste, uncloyed by rich excesses,All the bliss that wine possesses;He, who inspires the youth to boundElastic through the dance's round,—Bacchus, the god again is here,And leads along the blushing year;The blushing year with vintage teems,Ready to shed those cordial streams,Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth,Illuminate the sons of earth![1]
Then, when the ripe and vermil wine,—Blest infant of the pregnant vine,Which now in mellow clusters swells,—Oh! when it bursts its roseate cells,Brightly the joyous stream shall flow,To balsam every mortal woe!None shall be then cast down or weak,For health and joy shall light each cheek;No heart will then desponding sigh,For wine shall bid despondence fly.Thus—till another autumn's glowShall bid another vintage flow.
[1] Madame Dacier thinks that the poet here had the nepenthe of Homer in his mind. Odyssey, lib. iv. This nepenthe was a something of exquisite charm, infused by Helen into the wine of her guests, which had the power of dispelling every anxiety. A French writer, De Mere, conjectures that this spell, which made the bowl so beguiling, was the charm of Helen's conversation. See Bayle, art. Helène.
Whose was the artist hand that spreadUpon this disk the ocean's bed?And, in a flight of fancy, highAs aught on earthly wing can fly,Depicted thus, in semblance warm,The Queen of Love's voluptuous formFloating along the silvery seaIn beauty's naked majesty!Oh! he hath given the enamoured sightA witching banquet of delight,Where, gleaming through the waters clear,Glimpses of undreamt charms appear,And all that mystery loves to screen,Fancy, like Faith, adores unseen.[2]
Light as a leaf, that on the breezeOf summer skims the glassy seas,She floats along the ocean's breast,Which undulates in sleepy rest;While stealing on, she gently pillowsHer bosom on the heaving billows.Her bosom, like the dew-washed rose,Her neck, like April's sparkling snows,Illume the liquid path she traces,And burn within the stream's embraces.Thus on she moves, in languid pride,Encircled by the azure tide,As some fair lily o'er a bedOf violets bends its graceful head.
Beneath their queen's inspiring glance,The dolphins o'er the green sea dance,Bearing in triumph young Desire,And infant Love with smiles of fire!While, glittering through the silver waves,The tenants of the briny cavesAround the pomp their gambols play,And gleam along the watery way.
[1] This ode is a very animated description of a picture of Venus on a discus, which represented the goddess in her first emergence from the waves. About two centuries after our poet wrote, the pencil of the artist Apelles embellished this subject, in his famous painting of the Venus Anadyomene, the model of which, as Pliny informs us, was the beautiful Campaspe, given to him by Alexander; though, according to Natalis Comes, lib. vii. cap. 16., it was Phryne who sat to Apelles for the face and breast of this Venus.
[2] The picture here has all the delicate character of the semi-reducta Venus, and affords a happy specimen of what the poetry of passionoughtto be—glowing but through a veil, and stealing upon the heart from concealment. Few of the ancients have attained this modesty of description, which, like the golden cloud that hung over Jupiter and Juno, is impervious to every beam but that of fancy.