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
Οι μεν καλην Κυβήβην.
(The 13th in Barnes.)
THEY tell how Atys, wild with love,
Roams the mount and haunted grove:
Cybele's name he howls around,
The gloomy blast returns the sound!
Oft too by Claros' hallow'd spring,
The votaries of the laurell'd king
Quaff the inspiring, magic stream,
And rave in wild prophetic dream.
But frenzied dreams are not for me,
Great Bacchus is my deity!
Full of mirth, and full of him,
While waves of perfume round me swim
While flavour'd bowls are full supplied,
And you sit blushing by my side,
I will be mad and raving too-
Mad, my girl! with love for you!
ODE XIII.
Θέλω, θέλω φιλησαι.
(The 14th in Barnes.)
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 hop'd 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;
Assum'd the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smil'd 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 glanc'd himself into my heart
My heart-alas the luckless day!
Receiv'd the god, and died away.
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield
Thy lord at length is forc'd to yield.
Vain, vain, is every outward care,
My foe's within, and triumphs there.
ODE XIV.
Ερασμίν πελεια.
(The 9th in Barnes.)
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.
Αγε, ζωγράφων αριςτε.
(The 28th in Barnes.)
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 a 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!
Then beneath the velvet chin,
Whose dimple shades a love within,
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!
Γραφε μοι Βαθυλλον ούτω.
(The 29th in Barnes.)
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 die 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 polish'd glow
Front, as fair as mountain snow,
And guileless as the dews of dawn,
Let the majestic brows be drawn,
Of ebon dies, enrich'd 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;
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