Array Anacreon - The Greatest Classics of Ancient Greece

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,