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

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,