Читать книгу Yale Classics - Ancient Greek Literature - Anacreon - Страница 144

ODE XIII.

I CARE not for the idle state

Of Persia's king, the rich, the great!

I envy not the monarch's throne,

Nor wish the treasured gold my own.

But oh! be mine the rosy braid,

The fervour of my brows to shade;

Be mine the odours, richly sighing,

Amidst my hoary tresses flying.

To-day, I'll haste to quaff my wine,

As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;

But if to-morrow comes, why then—

I'll haste to quaff my wine again.

And thus while all our days are bright,

Nor time has dimm'd their bloomy light,

Let us the festal hours beguile

With mantling cup and cordial smile;

And shed from every bowl of wine

The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine!

For Death may come, with brow unpleasant,

May come, when least we wish him present,

And beckon to the sable shore,

And grimly bid us drink no more!

ODE XIV.

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,

Which drank the current of my heart;

Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,

Have made this vanquish'd bosom bleed;

No—from an eye of liquid blue,

A host of quiver'd cupids flew;

And now my heart all bleeding lies

Beneath this army of the eyes!

ODE XV.

GRAVE me a cup with brilliant grace,

Deep as the rich and holy vase,

Which on the shrine of Spring reposes,

When shepherds hail that hour of roses.

Grave it with themes of chaste design,

Form'd for a heavenly bowl like mine.

Display not there the barbarous rites,

In which religious zeal delights;

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;

And all the Graces link'd with Love,

Blushing 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,

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 brimming 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;

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 hoarded 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 hell 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?

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 Crœsus' 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?

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 brimming 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 sunshine 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!

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.

THOU, whose soft and rosy hues,

Mimic form and soul infuse;

Best of painters! come portray

The lovely maid that's far away.

Far away, my soul! thou art,

But I've thy beauties all by heart.

Paint her jetty ringlets straying,

Silky twine in tendrils playing;

And, if painting hath the skill

To make the spicy balm distil,

Let every little lock exhale

A sigh of perfume on the gale.

Where her tresses' curly flow

Darkles o'er the brow of snow,

Let her forehead beam to light,

Burnish'd as the ivory bright.

Let her eyebrows sweetly rise

In jetty arches o'er her eyes,

Gently in her crescent gliding,

Just commingling, just dividing.

But hast thou any sparkles warm,

The lightning of her eyes to form?

Let them effuse the azure ray

With which Minerva's glances play,

And give them all that liquid fire

That Venus' languid eyes respire.

O'er her nose and cheek be shed

Flushing white and mellow'd red;

Gradual tints, as when there glows

In snowy milk the bashful rose.

Then her lip, so rich in blisses!

Sweet petitioner for kisses!

Pouting nest of bland persuasion,

Ripely suing Love's invasion.

Then beneath the velvet chin,

Whose dimple shades a love within,

Mould her neck with grace descending.

In a heaven of beauty ending;

While airy charms, above, below,

Sport and flutter on its snow.

Now let a floating, lucid veil,

Shadow her limbs, but not, conceal;

A charm may peep, a hue may beam,

And leave the rest to Fancy's dream.

Enough—'tis she! 'tis all I seek;

It glows, it lives, it soon will speak.

ODE XXII.

AND now with all thy pencil's truth,

Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth!

Let his hair in lapses bright,

Fall like streaming rays of light,

And there the raven's dye confuse

With the yellow sunbeam's hues.

Let not the braid, with artful twine,

The flowing of his locks confine;

But loosen every golden ring,

To float upon the breeze's wing,

Beneath the front of polished glow.

Front as fair as mountain-snow,

And guileless as the dews of dawn,

Let the majestic brows be drawn,

Of ebon dies, enriched by gold,

Such as the scaly snakes unfold.

Mingle in his jetty glances,

Power that awes, and love that trances;

Steal from Venus bland desire,

Steal from Mars the look of fire,

Blend them in such expression here,

That we by turns may hope and fear!

Now from the sunny apple seek

The velvet down that spreads his cheek;

And there let Beauty's rosy ray

In flying blushes richly play;

Blushes, of that celestial flame

Which lights the cheek of virgin shame.

Then for his lips, that ripely gem—

But let thy mind imagine them!

Paint, where the ruby cell uncloses,

Persuasion sleeping upon roses;

And give his lip that speaking air,

As if a word was hovering there!

His neck of ivory splendour trace,

Moulded with soft but manly grace;

Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy,

Where Paphia's arms have hung in joy.

Give him the winged Hermes' hand.

With which he waves his snaky wand:

Let Bacchus then the breast supply,

And Leda's son the sinewy thigh.

But oh! suffuse his limbs of fire

With all that glow of young desire,

Which kindles, when the wishful sigh

Steals from the heart, unconscious why.

Thy pencil, though divinely bright,

Is envious of the eye's delight,

Or its enamoured touch would shew

His shoulder, fair as sunless snow,

Which now in veiling shadow lies,

Removed from all but Fancy's eyes,

Now, for his feet—but hold—forbear—

I see a godlike portrait there;

So like Bathyllus! sure there's none

So like Bathyllus but the Sun!

Oh! let this pictured god be mine,

And keep the boy for Samos' shrine;

Phœbus shall then Bathyllus be,

Bathyllus then the deity!

ODE XXIII.

ONE day, the Muses twined the hands

Of baby Love, with flowery bands;

And to celestial Beauty gave

The captive infant as her slave.

His mother comes with many a toy,

To ransom her beloved boy;

His mother sues, but all in vain!

He ne'er will leave his chains again.

Nay, should they take his chains away,

The little captive still would stay.

'If this,' he cries, 'a bondage be,

Who could wish for liberty?'

ODE XXIV.

FLY not thus my brow of snow,

Lovely wanton! fly not so.

Though the wane of age is mine,

Though the brilliant flush is thine,

Still I'm doom'd to sigh for thee,

Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!

See, in yonder flowery braid,

Cull'd for thee, my blushing maid,

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!

ODE XXV.

METHINKS, the pictur'd bull we see

Is amorous Jove—it must be he!

How fondly blest he seems to bear

That fairest of Phœnician 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!

ODE XXVI.

AWAY, away, you men of rules,

What have I to 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 swim

My soul upon the goblet's brim;

Teach me this, and let me twine

My arms around the nymph divine!

Age begins to blanch my brow,

I've time for nought but pleasure now.

Fly, and cool my goblet's glow

At yonder fountain's gelid flow;

I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink

This 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 know

They drink but little wine below!

ODE XXVII.

SEE the young, the rosy Spring,

Gives to the breeze her spangled wing;

While virgin Graces, warm with May,

Fling roses o'er her dewy way!

The murmuring billows of the deep

Have languished into silent sleep;

And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave

Their plumes in the reflecting wave;

While cranes from hoary winter fly

To flutter in a kinder sky.

Now the genial star of day

Dissolves the murky clouds away;

And cultur'd field, and winding stream,

Are sweetly tissued by his beam.

Now the earth prolific swells

With 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!

ODE XXVIII.

'TIS true, my fading years decline,

Yet I can 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 call'd to wind the dance's clue,

Thou shall behold this vigorous hand,

Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,

But brandishing a rosy flask,

The only Thyrsus e'er I'll ask!

Let those who pant for Glory's charms,

Embrace her in the held of arms;

While my inglorious placid soul

Breathes not a wish beyond the bowl.

Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,

And bathe me in its honied wave!

For though my fading years decay,

And though my bloom has passed away,

Like old Silenus, sire divine,

With blushes borrowed from my wine,

I'll wanton 'mid the dancing train,

And live my follies all again!

ODE XXIX.

WHEN I drink, I feel, I feel,

Visions of poetic zeal!

Warm with the goblet's fresh'ning dews,

My heart invokes the heavenly Muse.

When I drink my sorrow's o'er;

I think of doubts and fears no more;

But scatter to the railing wind

Each gloomy phantom of the mind!

When I drink, the jesting boy

Bacchus himself partakes my joy;

And while we dance through breathing bowers,

Whose every gale is rich with flowers,

In bowls he makes my senses swim,

Till the gale breathes of nought but him!

When I drink, I deftly twine

Flowers, begemm'd with tears of wine;

And, while with festive hand I spread

The smiling garland round my head,

Something whispers in my breast,

How sweet it is to live at rest!

When I drink, and perfume stills

Around me all in balmy rills,

Then as some beauty, smiling roses,

In languor on my breast reposes,

Venus! I breathe my vows to thee,

In many a sigh of luxury!

When I drink, my heart refines,

And rises as the cup declines;

Rises in the genial flow,

That none but social spirits know,

When youthful revellers round the bowl,

Dilating, mingle soul with soul!

When I drink, the bliss is mine;

There's bliss in every drop of wine!

All other joys that I have known,

I've scarcely dared to call my own;

But this the Fates can ne'er destroy,

Till death o'ershadows all my joy!

ODE XXX.

CUPID once upon a bed

Of roses laid his weary head;

Luckless urchin, not to see

Within the leaves a slumbering bee!

The bee awaked—with anger wild

The 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 much

Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch,

How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be,

The hapless heart that's stung by thee?'

ODE XXXI.

LET us drain the nectar'd bowl,

Let us raise the song of soul

To him, the God who loves so well

The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!

Him, who instructs the sons of earth

To thrid the tangled dance of mirth;

Him, who was nursed with infant Love,

And cradled in the Paphian grove;

Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms

Has fondled in her twining arms.

From him that dream of transport flows,

Which sweet intoxication knows;

With him, the brow forgets to darkle,

And brilliant graces learn to sparkle.

Behold! my boys a goblet bear,

Whose sunny foam bedews 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!

Oh! can the tears we lend to thought

In life's account avail us aught?

Can we discern, with all our lore,

The path we're yet to journey o'er?

No, no! the walk of life is dark;

'Tis wine alone can strike a spark!

Then let me quaff the foamy tide,

And through the dance meandering glide;

Let me imbibe the spicy breath

Of odours chafed to fragrant death;

Or from the kiss of love inhale

A more voluptuous, richer gale!

To souls that court the phantom Care,

Let him retire and shroud him there;

While we exhaust the nectar'd bowl,

And swell the choral song of soul

To him, the God who loves so well

The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!

ODE XXXII.

YES, be the glorious revel mine,

Where humour sparkles from the wine!

Around me let the youthful choir

Respond to my beguiling lyre;

And while the red cup circles round,

Mingle in soul as well as sound!

Let the bright nymph, with trembling eye,

Beside me all in blushes lie;

And, while she weaves a frontlet fair

Of hyacinth to deck my hair,

Oh! let me snatch her sidelong kisses,

And that shall be my bliss of blisses!

My soul, to festive feeling true,

One pang of envy never knew;

And little has it learn'd to dread

The gall that envy's tongue can shed.

Away—I hate the slanderous dart,

Which steals to wound th' unwary heart;

And oh! I hate, with all my soul,

Discordant clamours o'er the bowl,

Where every cordial heart should be

Attuned to peace and harmony.

Come, let us hear the soul of song

Expire the silver harp along;

And through the dance's ringlet move,

With maidens mellowing into love:

Thus simply happy, thus at peace,

Sure such a life should never cease!

ODE XXXIII.

'TWAS in an airy dream of night,

I fancied that I wing'd my flight

On pinions fleeter than the wind,

While little Love, whose feet were twined

(I know not why) with chains of lead,

Pursued me as I trembling fled;

Pursued—and could I e'er have thought?—

Swift as the moment I was caught!

What does the wanton fancy mean

By such a strange, illusive scene?

I fear she whispers to my breast,

That you, my girl, have stol'n my rest;

That though my fancy, for a while,

Has hung on many a woman's smile,

I soon dissolved the passing vow,

And ne'er was caught by love till now!

ODE XXXIV.

AS in the Lemnian caves of fire,

The mate of her who nursed Desire

Moulded the glowing steel, to form

Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;

While Venus every barb imbues

With droppings of her honied dews;

And Love (alas the victim-heart!)

Tinges with gall the burning dart;

Once, to this Lemnian cave of flame,

The crested Lord of battles came;

'Twas from the ranks of war he rush'd,

His spear with many a life-drop blush'd!

He saw the mystic darts, and smiled

Derision on the archer-child.

'And dost thou smile?' said little Love;

'Take this dart, and thou mayst prove,

That though they pass the breeze's flight,

My bolts are not so feathery light.'

He took the shaft—and oh! thy look,

Sweet Venus! when the shaft he took—

He sigh'd, and felt the urchin's art;

He sigh'd, in agony of heart,

'It is not light—I die with pain!

Take—take thy arrow back again.'

'No,' said the child, 'it must not be,

That little dart was made for thee!'