Читать книгу Yale Classics - Ancient Greek Literature - Anacreon - Страница 143

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ODE I.

I often wish this languid lyre,

This warbler of my soul's desire,

Could raise the breath of song sublime,

To men of fame in former time.

But when the soaring theme I try,

Along the chords my numbers die,

And whisper, with dissolving tone,

'Our sighs are given to love alone!'

Indignant at the feeble lay,

I tore the panting chords away,

Attuned them to a nobler swell,

And struck again the breathing shell;

In all the glow of epic fire,

To Hercules I wake the lyre!

But still its fainting sighs repeat,

'The tale of love alone is sweet!'

Then fare thee well, seductive dream,

That madest me follow Glory's theme;

For thou my lyre, and thou my heart,

Shall never more in spirit part;

And thou the flame shalt feel as well

As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell.

ODE II.

TO all that breathe the airs of heaven,

Some boon of strength has Nature given.

When the majestic bull was born,

She fenced his brow with wreathèd horn.

She arm'd the courser's foot of air,

And wing'd with speed the panting hare.

She gave the lion fangs of terror,

And, on the ocean's crystal mirror,

Taught the unnumber'd scaly throng

To trace their liquid path along;

While for the umbrage of the grove,

She plumed the warbling bird of love.

To man she gave the flame refined,

The spark of heaven—a thinking mind!

And had she no surpassing treasure,

For thee, oh woman! child of pleasure?

She gave thee beauty—shaft of eyes,

That every shaft of war outflies!

She gave thee beauty—blush of fire,

That bids the flames of war retire!

Woman! be fair, we must adore thee;

Smile, and a world is weak before thee!

ODE III.

'TWAS noon of night, when round the pole

The 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 save him from the midnight air!

'And who art thou,' I waking cry,

'That bidd'st my blissful visions fly?'

'O gentle sire!' the infant said,

'In pity take me to thy shed;

Nor fear deceit: a lonely child

I wander o'er the gloomy wild.

Chill drops the rain, and not a ray

Illumes the drear and misty way!'

I hear the baby's tale of woe;

I hear the bitter night-winds blow;

And sighing for his piteous fate,

I trimm'd 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!

I take him in, and fondly raise

The dying embers' cheering blaze;

Press from his dank and clinging hair

The crystals of the freezing air,

And in my hand and bosom hold

His little fingers thrilling cold.

And now the embers' genial ray

Had warm'd 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 wander'd so,

That much I fear the ceaseless shower

Has injured its elastic power.'

The fatal bow the urchin drew;

Swift from the string the arrow flew;

Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame

And to my very soul it came!

'Fare thee well,' I heard him say,

As laughing wild he wing'd away:

'Fare thee well, for now I know

The rain has not relax'd my bow;

It still can send a maddening dart,

As thou shalt own with all thy heart!'

ODE IV.

STREW me a breathing bed of leaves,

Where lotos with the myrtle weaves;

And while in luxury's dream I sink,

Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!

In this delicious hour of joy,

Young Love shall be my goblet-boy;

Folding his little golden vest,

With cinctures, round his snowy breast,

Himself shall hover by my side,

And minister the racy tide!

Swift as the 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.

Why do we shed the rose's bloom

Upon the cold insensate tomb?

Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,

Affect the slumbering chill of death?

No, no; I ask no balm to steep

With 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 its scent expire;

And bring the nymph with floating eye,—

Oh! she will teach me how to die!

Yes, Cupid! ere my soul retire,

To join the blest elysian choir,

With wine, and love, and blisses dear,

I'll make my own elysium here!

ODE V.

BUDS of roses, virgin flowers,

Cull'd 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 think

That we were born to smile and drink.

Rose! thou art the sweetest flower

That ever drank the amber shower;

Rose! thou art the fondest child

Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild!

E'en the gods, who walk the sky,

Are amorous of thy scented sigh.

Cupid too, in Paphian shades,

His hair with rosy fillet braids,

When with the blushing naked Graces,

The wanton winding dance he traces.

Then bring me showers of roses, bring,

And shed them round me while I sing:

Great Bacchus! in thy hallow'd shade,

With some celestial, glowing maid,

While gales of roses round me rise,

In perfume, sweeten'd by her sighs,

I'll bill and twine in airy dance,

ODE VI.

WHILE our rosy fillets shed

Blushes o'er each fervid head,

With many a cup and many a smile

The festal moments we beguile.

And while the harp, impassion'd, flings

Tuneful rapture from the strings,

Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs,

Through the dance luxuriant swims,

Waving, in her snowy hand,

The leafy Bacchanalian wand,

Which, as the tripping wanton flies,

Shakes its tresses to her sighs;

A youth the while, with loosen'd hair,

Floating on the listless air,

Sings to the wild harp's tender tone,

A tale of woes, alas! his own;

And then what nectar in his sigh,

As o'er his lip the murmurs die!

Surely never yet has been

So divine, so blest a scene!

Has Cupid left the starry sphere,

To wave his golden tresses here?

Oh yes! and Venus, queen of wiles,

And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles,

All, all are here, to hail with me

The genius of festivity!

ODE VII.

ARM'D with hyacinthine rod,

(Arms enough for such a god,)

Cupid bade me wing my pace,

And try with him the rapid race.

O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep.

By tangled brake and pendent steep,

With weary foot I panting flew,

My brow was chill with drops of dew.

And now my soul, exhausted, dying,

To my lip was faintly flying;

And now I thought the spark had fled,

When Cupid hover'd o'er my head,

And fanning light his breezy plume,

Recall'd me from my languid gloom;

Then said, in accents half-reproving,

'Why hast thou been a foe to loving?'

ODE VIII.

'TWAS night, and many a circling bowl

Had deeply warmed my swimming soul;

As lull'd in slumber I was laid,

Bright visions o'er my fancy play'd!

With virgins blooming as the dawn,

I seem'd to trace the opening lawn;

Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew,

We flew, and sported as we flew!

Some ruddy striplings, young and sleek,

With blush of Bacchus on their cheek,

Saw me trip the flowery wild

With dimpled girls, and slily smiled;

Smiled indeed with wanton glee,

But, ah! 'twas plain they envied me.

And still I flew—and now I caught

The panting nymphs, and fondly thought

To kiss—when all my dream of joys,

Dimpled girls and ruddy boys,

All were gone! 'Alas!' I said,

Sighing for the illusions fled,

'Sleep! again my joys restore,

Oh! let me dream them o'er and o'er!'

ODE IX.

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.—

Curious stranger! I belong

To the bard of Teian song:

With his mandate now I fly

To the nymph of azure eye;

Ah! that eye has madden'd many,

But the poet more than any!

Venus, for a hymn of love,

Warbled in her votive grove,

('Twas in sooth a gentle lay,)

Gave me to the bard away.

See me now his faithful minion,

Thus with softly-gliding pinion,

To his lovely girl I bear

Songs of passion through the air.

Oft he blandly whispers me,

'Soon, my bird, I'll set you free.'

But in vain he'll bid me fly,

I shall serve him till I die.

Never could my plumes sustain

Ruffling winds and chilling rain,

O'er the plains, or in the dell,

On the mountain's savage swell;

Seeking in the desert wood

Gloomy shelter, rustic food.

Now I lead a life of ease,

Far from such retreats as these;

From Anacreon's hand I eat

Food delicious, viands sweet;

Flutter o'er his goblet's brim,

Sip the foamy wine with him.

Then I dance and wanton round

To the lyre's beguiling sound;

Or with gently-fanning wings

Shade the minstrel while he sings:

On his harp then sink in slumbers,

Dreaming still of dulcet numbers!

This is all—away—away—

You have made me waste the day.

How I've chatter'd! prating crow

Never yet did chatter so.

ODE X.

'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 pass'd my way:

'Sir,' he answer'd, and the while

Answer'd all in Doric style,

'Take it, for a trifle take it;

Think not yet that I could make it;

Pray, believe it was not I;

No—it cost me many a sigh,

And I can no longer keep

Little gods, 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!'

Little Love! thou now art mine,

Warm me with that torch of thine;

Make me feel as I have felt,

Or thy waxen frame shall melt.

I must burn in warm desire,

Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire!

ODE XI.

THE women tell me every day,

That all my bloom has past away.

'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry,

'Behold this mirror with a sigh;

The locks upon thy brow are few,

And like the rest, they're withering too!'

Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,

I'm sure I neither know nor care;

But this I know, and this I feel,

As onward to the tomb I steal,

That still as death approaches nearer,

The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;

And had I but an hour to live,

That little hour to bliss I'd give!

ODE XII.

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 resign'd;

And I've repell'd the tender lure,

And hoped my heart should 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 summon'd me to yield,

Or meet him on the martial field.

And what did I unthinking do?

I took to arms, undaunted too;

Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear,

And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, all you powers above!)

I fought with Love! I fought with Love!

And now his arrows all were shed

And I had just in terrors fled—

When heaving an indignant sigh

To see me thus unwounded fly,

And having now no other dart,

He glanced himself into my heart!

My heart—alas the luckless day!

Received the god, and died away.

Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield!

Thy lord at length is forced to yield.

Vain, vain, is every outward care,

My foe's within, and triumphs there.