Читать книгу Yale Required Reading - Collected Works (Vol. 1) - Anacreon - Страница 145

ODE XXXV.

HOW I love the festive boy,

Tripping wild the dance of joy!

How I love the mellow sage,

Smiling through the veil of age!

And whene'er this man of years

In the dance of joy appears,

Age is on his temples hung,

But his heart—his heart is young!

ODE XXXVI.

HE, who instructs the youthful crew

To bathe them in the brimmer's dew,

And taste, uncloy'd by rich excesses,

All the bliss that wine possesses!

He, who inspires the youth to glance

In winged circlets through the dance;

Bacchus, the god again is here,

And leads along the blushing year;

The blushing year with rapture teems,

Ready to shed those cordial streams,

Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth,

Illuminate the sons of earth,

And when the ripe and vermeil wine,

Sweet infant of the pregnant vine,

Which now in mellow clusters swells,

Oh! when it bursts its rosy cells,

The heavenly stream shall mantling flow,

To balsam every mortal woe!

No youth shall then be wan or weak,

For dimpling health shall light the cheek;

No heart shall then desponding sigh,

For wine shall bid despondence fly!

Thus—till another autumn's glow

Shall bid another vintage flow!

ODE XXXVII.

AND whose immortal hand could shed

Upon this disk the ocean's bed?

And, in a frenzied flight of soul

Sublime as heaven's eternal pole,

Imagine thus, in semblance warm,

The Queen of Love's voluptuous form

Floating along the silvery sea

In beauty's naked majesty!

Oh! he has given the raptured sight

A witching banquet of delight;

And all those sacred scenes of love,

Where only hallow'd eyes may rove,

Lie, faintly glowing, half conceal'd,

Within the lucid billows veil'd.

Light as the leaf, that summer's breeze

Has wafted o'er the glassy seas,

She floats upon the ocean's breast,

Which undulates in sleepy rest,

And stealing on, she gently pillows

Her bosom on the amorous billows.

Her bosom, like the humid rose,

Her neck, like dewy-sparkling snows,

Illume the liquid path she traces,

And burn within the stream's embraces!

In languid luxury soft she glides,

Encircled by the azure tides,

Like some fair lily, faint with weeping,

Upon a bed of violets sleeping!

Beneath their queen's inspiring glance,

The dolphins o'er the green sea dance,

Bearing in triumph young Desire,

And baby Love with smiles of fire!

While, sparkling on the silver waves,

The tenants of the briny caves

Around the pomp in eddies play,

And gleam along the watery way.

ODE XXXVIII.

WHILE we invoke the wreathed spring,

Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;

Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers,

Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers;

Whose virgin blush of chasten'd dye,

Enchants so much our mortal eye.

When pleasure's bloomy season glows,

The Graces love to twine the rose;

The rose is warm Dione's bliss,

And flushes like Dione's kiss!

Oft has the poet's magic tongue

The rose's fair luxuriance sung;

And long the Muses, heavenly maids,

Have rear'd it in their tuneful shades.

When, at the early glance of morn,

It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,

'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence,

To cull the timid flowret thence,

And wipe with tender hand away

The tear that on its blushes lay!

'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,

Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,

And fresh inhale the spicy sighs

That 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!

Oh! there is nought in nature bright,

Where roses do not shed their light!

When morning paints the orient skies,

Her fingers burn with roseate dyes;

The nymphs display the rose's charms,

It mantles o'er their graceful arms;

Through 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 inurned clay,

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 breath

Diffuses odour e'en in death!

Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung?

Attend—for thus the tale is sung.

When, humid, from the silvery stream,

Effusing beauty's warmest beam,

Venus appear'd, in flushing hues,

Mellow'd by ocean's briny dews;

When, in the starry courts above,

The pregnant brain of mighty Jove

Disclosed 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, with blushing tinctures drest,

And wanton'd o'er its parent breast.

The gods beheld this brilliant birth,

And hail'd the Rose, the boon of earth!

With nectar drops, a ruby tide,

The sweetly orient buds they dyèd,

And bade them bloom, the flowers divine

Of him who sheds the teeming vine;

And bade them on the spangled thorn

Expand their bosoms to the morn.

ODE XXXIX.

WHEN I behold the festive train

Of 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 rose

Burn upon my brow of snows;

And let me, while the wild and young

Trip the mazy dance along,

Fling my heap of years away,

And be as wild, as young as they.

Hither haste, some cordial soul!

Give my lips the brimming bowl;

Oh! you will see this hoary sage

Forget his locks, forget his age.

He still can chant the festive hymn,

He still can kiss the goblet's brim;

He still can act the mellow raver,

And play the fool as sweet as ever!

ODE XL.

WE read the flying courser's name

Upon his side in marks of flame;

And, by their turban'd brows alone,

The warriors of the East are known.

But in the lover's glowing eyes,

The inlet to his bosom lies;

Thro' them we see the small faint mark,

Where Love has dropt his burning spark!

ODE XLI.

WHEN Spring begems the dewy scene,

How sweet to walk the velvet green,

And hear the Zephyr's languid sighs,

As o'er the scented mead he flies!

How sweet to mark the pouting vine,

Ready to fall in tears of wine;

And with the maid, whose every sigh

Is love and bliss, entranced to lie

Where the imbowering branches meet—

Oh! is not this divinely sweet?

ODE XLII.

I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure,

The minstrel of the Teian measure;

'Twas in a vision of the night.

He beam'd upon my wond'ring sight;

I heard his voice, and warmly prest

The dear enthusiast to my breast.

His tresses wore a silvery dye,

But beauty sparkled in his eye;

Sparkled in his eyes of fire,

Through the mist of soft desire.

His lip exhaled, whene'er he sigh'd,

The fragrance of the racy tide;

And, as with weak and reeling feet,

He came my coral kiss to meet,

An infant, of the Cyprian band,

Guided him on with tender hand.

Quick from his glowing brows he drew

His braid, of many a wanton hue,

I took the braid of wanton twine,

It breathed of him and blush'd with wine!

I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow,

And ah! I feel its magic now!

I feel that e'en his garland's touch

Can make the bosom love too much!

ODE XLIII.

GIVE me the harp of epic song,

Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;

But tear away the sanguine string,

For war is not the theme I sing.

Proclaim the laws of festal right

I'm monarch of the board to-night;

And all around shall brim as high,

And quaff the tide as deep as I!

And when the cluster's mellowing dews

Their warm, enchanting balm infuse

Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound,

And reel us through the dance's round.

Oh, Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,

In wild but sweet ebriety!

And flash around such sparks of thought,

As Bacchus could alone have taught!

Then give the harp of epic song,

Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;

But tear away the sanguine string,

For war is not the theme I sing!

ODE XLIV.

LISTEN to the Muse's lyre,

Master of the pencil's fire!

Sketch'd in painting's bold display,

Many a city first pourtray;

Many a city revelling free,

Warm with loose festivity.

Picture then a rosy train,

Bacchants straying o'er the plain;

Piping, as they roam along,

Roundelay or shepherd-song.

Paint me next, if painting may

Such a theme as this pourtray,

All the happy heaven of love,

These elect of Cupid prove.

ODE XLV.

AS late I sought the spangled bowers,

To cull a wreath of matin flowers,

Where many an early rose was weeping,

I found the urchin Cupid sleeping.

I caught the boy, a goblet's tide

Was richly mantling by my side,

I caught him by his downy wing,

And whelm'd him in the racy spring.

Oh! then I drank the poison'd bowl,

And Love now nestles in my soul!

Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,

I feel him fluttering in my breast.