Poems and Translations

Tho’ Atreus’ sons my verse inspire,
Tho’ mightier Cadmus wakes my lyre,
In vain my glowing hand I try
The rebel strings to love reply!
My glowing hand the rebels chang’d,
Thro’ every faithless chord I rang’d;
My tongue Alcides’ labours fir’d,
Yet still my lyre with love conspir’d.
Heroes! I quit the towering song!
These strings to love alone belong.

The lordly bull to Nature owes
The polish’d armour of his brows;
She guards with hoofs the bounding steed,
And lends the timid hare her speed:
Th’ imperial lion teeth she gave,
To fish the empire of the wave;
To denizens of the air their wings,
And valour to creation’s kings.
But women! had she nought to suit ye?
What better could she give than beauty?
Beauty which braves the sword and shield,
Beauty which bids the sceptre yield;
Beauty whose heaven-deputed sway
Ev’n fire and adamant obey:
Let man the elements enthrall,
Imperial Beauty mocks them all.

’Twas midnight; by Boötes sway’d,
The bear his sullen light display’d;
While toil-exhausted mortals slept,
Sly Cupid to my threshold crept.
“What daring hands my gate invest?
Who thus at midnight breaks my rest?”
“O open, haste, dismiss your fear,
A feeble boy asks shelter here;
The moon is absent; bath’d in rain,
I wander on the pathless plain.”
Well, now, behold my rage compos’d,
My lamp renew’d, my door unclos’d;
O’er my warm hearth an urchin tripp’d,
With quiver, bow, and wings equipp’d.
His frozen fingers mine caress’d,
My palms his humid hair compress’d;
Till bold with heat he whisper’d, “Friend,
Let’s see if yet my bow will bend:”
’Twas bent; the well-directed dart,
Deep in the centre pierc’d my heart;
The faithless elf his pinions tried,
And slily laughing, “Host,” he cried;
“Congratulate me, now your part ’tis,
My bow is safer than your heart is.”

Beneath a myrtle’s tender shade,
On beds of fragrant lotos laid,
 The vacant bowl I chide;
Then love shall come, his tunic bound
His soft vermillion neck around,
 And new libations guide.

Like circling wheels our years are roll’d.
Till shrunk in dust, unseen and cold,
 Our humbled relics lie:
Then why unpitying marble lave?
Ah! why to melt the envious grave
 Mellifluous showers supply?

On me the liquid treasure shed,
Again with roses crown my head,
 And bid my nymph appear;
Ere yet I join th’ infernal choir,
Ere yet, O Love, thy flames expire,
 My cares shall leave me here!

Bring, bring the rose from Cupid’s shrine,
Its tender foliage bathed in wine,
 With liberal clusters wreathe;
Now fill the bowl, let mirth abound,
The rose shall clasp our temples round,
 And richer incense breathe.

O Rose! luxuriant queen of flow’rs,
O Rose! delight of heavenly bow’rs,
 Unrivall’d care of spring!
With thee the Paphian God entwines,
His golden tresses ere he joins
 The Graces frolic ring.

Mine too adorn—and, while I sing,
Yon ample-bosom’d virgin bring,
 With rosy garlands crown’d:
Then, Bacchus, round thy glowing fane,
I too will lead the jocund train,
 I too will lightly bound!

Yes, weave our rosy crowns again;
Now let the social Grace reign;
 Give jocund laughter place:
Yon blooming nymphs my lyre shall string,
The ivy-mantled thyrsis bring,
 And airy footsteps trace.

Awake! your silken tresses twine,
Wake, sons of revelry divine,
 The festal song improve:
Come—on those lips with nectar blest,
The soul of harmony shall rest—
 The soul of peace and love!

The bright-hair’d god of tender wiles,
The queen of every-ready smiles,
 Shall purple Bacchus greet;
While we his cluster’d rubies press,
Their long-lov’d ministers they bless,
 And ev’ry joy complete.

Love rested on my silver head
His hyacinth wand, and said,
“Wilt thou with me they swiftness prove?
Wilt thou again contend with Love?”
O’er raging floods he urg’d his flight,
O’er many a steep and sky-crown’d height;
My trembling feet pursued and strove
Mistaken strife! to conquer love!
But strength forsook my trembling feet,
My palsied heart forgot to beat;
Love with his velvet pinions spread,
Refresh’d my throbbing brow and said,
        “Thou canst not love!”

Stay, gentle dove, descend and say,
For whom you wing your easy way?
Say whence those perfum’d plumes diffuse,
Thro’ the rich air ambrosial dews?
“Anacreon sent me to his Boy,
Bathyllus, minister of joy;
Venus to old Anacreon kind,
Me for a simple hymn resign’d;
I glide, his herald, through the air,
And now a love tale claims my care.
He bids me soon unfetter’d roam,
But still his lap shall be my home.
O’er meagre plains or mountains blue,
Shall I my rustic food pursue?
Or cradled on a barren spray,
Consume th’ unprofitable day?
Now by Anacreon’s side I stand,
Stealing a banquet from his hand;
Or from his rich empurpled lip,
The vine’s ambrosial balsam sip.
I dance and fan his glowing cheek,
Then on his harp my slumber seek;
The tale is finish’d, stranger—go!
I learn to tattle like a crow.”

Thy form in tender wax impress’d,
I saw thee, Love! a quiet guest;
A Doric stripling, shrewd and cold,
Expos’d thy cherub form for gold:
“If this be love,” I said and smil’d,
“To me consign the harmless child.”
“No price I ask,” (the swain replies)
“But far remove your fatal prize;
For not by me with magic toil,
The breathing wax was taught to smile:
If this is Love, the cruel boy,
Will those who shelter him destroy.”
Take, take thy prize! this doit behold,
Enough when love himself is sold:
Now, beauteous boy! thy ransom paid,
To hoar Anacreon lend thine aid;
If thou are Love, my bosom fire,
Or soon thyself in flames expire.

“Anacreon, lo! (they smile and say)
Thy youth is gone, thy hairs are grey—”
 I know not if ’tis true;
But this I know, as life retires,
The social Sage will feed its fires,
 And richer joys pursue.

Yes, Love’s resistless pow’r I own,
Now, now I bend before his throne;
Long since the smiling tyrant stole,
With gentle whispers near my soul;
But taught by wisdom, arm’d by pride,
My soul the childish foe defied.
Next day his dreaded bow he bore,
And shew’d his quiver’s golden store;
With leer malignant brav’d my might,
And dar’d me to unequal fight.
An ample shield my shoulder brac’d,
My side a glitt’ring falchion grac’d;
Fierce as Achilles in the field,
I bade the infant archer yield.
But swift as light his arrow came,—
I fled and mock’d its erring aim;
His quiver spent, the vengeful elf,
Deep in his bosom plung’d himself.
Its inmost citadel confest
The triumph of the fatal guest;
Vain spear and faithless shield, depart!
The battle rages in my heart.

Not for the wealth by Gyges pil’d,
Not for the pow’r by kings defil’d,
 Imploring sighs I breathe;
Let me, confined to softer cares,
Enrich with balm these snowy hairs,
 And crowns of roses wreathe.
To day is ours, ’tis ours alone,
To-morrow comes unseen—unknown,
 Ah! who can bid it fly?
Drink, then, while sportive hours remain
Lest venom’d care and cureless pain.
 The social bowl deny.

Sculptor! a tempting cup provide,
A spacious cup, Anacreon’s pride!
First round it let a deathless wreath
Of spreading roses seem to breathe.
One image on the jocund bowl
One, only one, delights my soul;
No mystic orgie there record,
No combat by the sage abhorr’d:
But imag’d in the glowing gold,
Let me the son of Jove behold;
Kind Bacchus, lord of bounteous wine,
And Venus, queen of joy divine:
Triumphant Hymen by her side,
And Love unarm’d, his gentle guide.
With him the laughing graces join,
Beneath a nectar-yielding vine:
And last, to fill the frolic throng,
Its wide and fragrant shades among,
Let ever-beauteous youths advance,
Graceful as Phœbus in the dance.

The skies to earth potations give,
These leafy crowds by drinking live;
By tributes rich from air distill’d,
Old Ocean’s ample cup is fill’d:
The sun his sparkling forehead laves,
And quaffs his nectar from the waves;
Pale in her thirst, the queen of night,
Renews from him her wat’ry light;
Then, friends! why all these scruples make,
If I the great example take?

On Phrygian hills, by stone embrac’d,
Thy daughter, Tantalus, was plac’d;
Thine, Pandion, to a swallow chang’d,
Once thro’ the fields of Æther rang’d;
But me—to tempt my fair one’s eye,
Let me a mirror’s place supply;
Or in a tunic’s folds prepare me,
And may my nymph for ever wear me.

Dissolve me to a limpid wave,
Fair maid! thy faultless form to lave;
Or bid me, chang’d to fragrant dews,
Around, inferior sweets diffuse;
Or in a modest pearl compress’d,
Teach me to grace that envied vest;
Or if thy neck a gem requires,
I’ll ask the diamond’s purest fires;
If these are vain—in sandals weave me,
But let thy feet alone receive me.

Could boundless wealth our years renew,
I too might boundless wealth pursue;
Would death his trembling victim spare,
Content the splendid pile to share.
Yet since the grave its guest requires,
Shall barren care my joys controul?
Since the brief dream of life retires,
Shall thirst of gold consume my soul?
No, let inspiring bowls be mine,
While with the riches of the vine,
Warm friendship’s richer treasures blend;
Let me in Beauty’s lap recline,
Still let the loves my couch attend.

Blind mortal! ere the day is fled,
Thy narrow path contented tread;
The passing time serenely flows,
But who the clouded future knows,
        If mine or thine?

Haste then, devouring care, depart!
No place I yield thee in my heart;
Ere envious Death prepares his sting,
Leave me to laugh, and sport and sing
        With sparkling wine!

Painter, supreme in Rhodian art,
Painter, thy magic aid impart:
In faithful wax these charms combine,
And bid my absent nymph be mine.
First, then, in soft profusion spread,
Let sable tresses grace her head.
And, if thy wax can sweets diffuse,
Paint them exhaling fragrant dews:
Now let their rich empurpled shade,
Her forehead’s iv’ry arch invade;
Next with a soft and secret line
Her placid eye-brows intertwice;
Their slender union half betray,
Half, undiscover’d melt away.
Now, Painter, all thy pow’r unite,
Now form an eye—a seat of light;
Arrest her side-glance kindly keen,
That side-glance taught by Beauty’s queen;
And let they ample art supply
The still, slow fire of sage Minerva’s eye.

Next on my fair one’s cheek disclose,
Suffus’d with milk, the modest rose;
Paint those ripe lips that love engage,
Lips that seduce the sober sage:
Round her fair neck, their lov’d retreat,
Bid troops of frolic graces meet:
The rest—let purple fields enclose,
And round in easy waves repose:
Yet of those envious folds divide,
Still trace the shape they seem to hide:
Enough; ’tis she—I see her move,
Speak too, fair form, and speak of love!

The Muses once to learn his duty
Their captive, Cupid, gave to Beauty;
In chains of woven roses tam’d him,
Till Venus ransom’d and reclaim’d him;
But still their flow’ry bonds he chuses,
Sly Cupid still attends the Muses.

Go! count the waves in yonder sea,
Count ev’ry leaf on ev’ry tree,
Then ask how oft Anacreon’s heart
Has welcom’d Cupid’s golden dart.
First twenty bright Athenian dames
Involv’d this melting heart in flames;
And five time thrice to brighter eyes
This melting heart became a prize:
How oft in Corinth’s envied plains
It courted Beauty’s silver chains!
For still in happy Greece are seen
The richest gifts of Beauty’s queen.
Then ’midst Ionia’s blooming isles,
’Midst Carian wit and Lesbian wiles;
’Midst far-fam’d Rhodia’s syren race
Two thousand tender conquests trace.
Ah, why those tender conquests measure,
When all my life is love and pleasure!
How oft on Syria’s fervid plains,
How oft where old Canopus reigns,
For glowing Beauty’s smiles I sigh’d,
I boast not now with youthful pride;
As often on his Cretan throne
Love made his magic sceptre known;
Where, in a hundred cities round,
He sees his richest altars crown’d.
But could I tell how oft my soul
Bow’d to the laughing god’s controul,
Beyond where warm’d by western skies
Rich Gades’ purple vineyards rise:
Or where the yellow Bactrian roves2,
’Mid balmy rocks and silken groves,
Or where to meet the orient tide,
Th’ imperial waves of Indus glide;
the would the ample record prove
Anacreon only liv’d to love.

Tho’ silver hairs my brow entwine,
Tho’ youth’s luxuriant bloom is thine,
 My tender vows approve:
Behold this wreath; the blushing rose,
More sweetly breathes, more richly glows
 With silver lilies wove.

Hence with the maze of cynic rules!
The pomp of words, the war of schools
 To me, to all is vain:
Teach me the magic grape to court,
Bid me with laughing Venus sport
 In pleasure’s rich domain.

Boy, fill yon sober goblet high,
With wine the liquid crystal dye;
 Let roses crown my head:
Yet once again my cares compose
Ere life’s departing visions close;
 No cares awake the dead.

See, Spring awakes! The Graces shed
New rose-buds round her op’ning bed;
 The placid sea subsides;
The bird of love its pinion tries,
The crane departs—thro’ cloudless skies
 Imperial Phœbus rides.

Far flies the humid vapour’s gloom;
Now sons of toil their task resume,
 The laughing sky befriends;
Now earth her balmy store displays;
Her debt the silver olive pays,
 And ripen’d treasure lends.

Now by luxurious Bacchus sent
The vine, with teeming clusters bent
 Its welcome tribute pours;
In ev’ry stem, in ev’ry flow’r,
Creation owns the genial hour
 Which streams of life restores.

As Cupid slept with roses shaded,
A lurking bee his rest invaded:
Hw rings his hand, he runs, he flies;
Then thus to blooming Venus cries,
“Help, mother, help! your Cupid dies!
A hateful serpent wing’d—a Bee
By rustics call’d—has murder’d me!”
“And if, (she cry’d) and insect’s sting
Such fierce and fatal pain can bring,
Think, Cupid! how much keener smart
Thy arrows cost the wounded heart!”