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

And through the dance meandering glide;

Let me imbibe the spicy breath

Of odours chafed to fragrant death;

Or from the kiss of love inhale

A more voluptuous, richer gale!

To souls that court the phantom Care,

Let him retire and shroud him there;

While we exhaust the nectar'd bowl,

And swell the choral song of soul

To him, the God who loves so well

The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!

ODE XXXII.

YES, be the glorious revel mine,

Where humour sparkles from the wine!

Around me let the youthful choir

Respond to my beguiling lyre;

And while the red cup circles round,

Mingle in soul as well as sound!

Let the bright nymph, with trembling eye,

Beside me all in blushes lie;

And, while she weaves a frontlet fair

Of hyacinth to deck my hair,

Oh! let me snatch her sidelong kisses,

And that shall be my bliss of blisses!

My soul, to festive feeling true,

One pang of envy never knew;

And little has it learn'd to dread

The gall that envy's tongue can shed.

Away—I hate the slanderous dart,

Which steals to wound th' unwary heart;

And oh! I hate, with all my soul,

Discordant clamours o'er the bowl,

Where every cordial heart should be

Attuned to peace and harmony.

Come, let us hear the soul of song

Expire the silver harp along;

And through the dance's ringlet move,

With maidens mellowing into love:

Thus simply happy, thus at peace,

Sure such a life should never cease!

ODE XXXIII.

'TWAS in an airy dream of night,

I fancied that I wing'd my flight

On pinions fleeter than the wind,

While little Love, whose feet were twined

(I know not why) with chains of lead,

Pursued me as I trembling fled;

Pursued—and could I e'er have thought?—

Swift as the moment I was caught!

What does the wanton fancy mean

By such a strange, illusive scene?

I fear she whispers to my breast,

That you, my girl, have stol'n my rest;

That though my fancy, for a while,

Has hung on many a woman's smile,

I soon dissolved the passing vow,

And ne'er was caught by love till now!

ODE XXXIV.

AS in the Lemnian caves of fire,

The mate of her who nursed Desire

Moulded the glowing steel, to form

Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;

While Venus every barb imbues

With droppings of her honied dews;

And Love (alas the victim-heart!)

Tinges with gall the burning dart;

Once, to this Lemnian cave of flame,

The crested Lord of battles came;

'Twas from the ranks of war he rush'd,

His spear with many a life-drop blush'd!

He saw the mystic darts, and smiled

Derision on the archer-child.

'And dost thou smile?' said little Love;

'Take this dart, and thou mayst prove,

That though they pass the breeze's flight,

My bolts are not so feathery light.'

He took the shaft—and oh! thy look,

Sweet Venus! when the shaft he took—

He sigh'd, and felt the urchin's art;

He sigh'd, in agony of heart,

'It is not light—I die with pain!

Take—take thy arrow back again.'

'No,' said the child, 'it must not be,

That little dart was made for thee!'

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: