Array Anacreon - Yale Required Reading - Collected Works (Vol. 1)

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.

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.