ODE XXV.
Συ μεν λεγεις τα Θήβης.
(The 16th in Barnes.)
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 XXVI.
Ει ισχίοις μεν ἱπποι.
(The 55th in Barnes.)
WE read the flying courser's name
Upon his side in marks of flame;
And, by their turban'd brows alone,
The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover's glowing eyes,
The inlet to his bosom lies;
Through them we see the small faint mark,
Where Love has dropp'd his burning spark!
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 smil'd
Derision on the archer-child.
And dost thou smile?" said little Love; "Take this dart, and thou may'st 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 tookHe 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""
Χαλέπον το με φιλησαι.
(The 46th in Barnes.)
YES-loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still,
But surely 'tis the worst of pain,
To love, and not be lov'd again!
Affection now has fled from earth,
Nor fire of genius, light of birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile
From beauty's cheek one favouring smile.
Gold is the woman's only theme,
Gold is the woman's only dream.
Oh! never be that wretch forgiven-
Forgive him not, indignant Heaven!
Whose groveling eyes could first adore.
Whose heart could pant for sordid ore
Since that devoted thirst began,
Man has forgot to feel for man;
The pulse of social life is dead,
And all its fonder feelings fled!
War too has sullied Nature's charms,
For gold provokes the world to arms!
And oh! the worst of all its art,
I feel it breaks the lover's heart!
ODE XXIX.
Εδοκουν οναρ τροχάζειν.
(The 44th in Barnes.)
"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 twin'd
(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 awhile,
Has hung on many a woman's smile,
I soon disolv'd the passing vow,
And ne'er was caught by love till now
ODE XXX.
Υακινθινη με ραβδω.
(The 7th in Barnes.)
ARM'D with hyacinthine rod
(Arms enough for such a god),
Cupid bade me wing my pace,
And try with him the rapid race.
O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep,
With weary foot I panting flew,
My brow was chill with drops of dew
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying;
And now I thought the spark had fled,
When Cupid hover'd o'er my head,
And fanning light his breezy plume,
Recall'd me from my languid gloom;
Then said, in accents half-reproving,
"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"
ODE XXXI.
Επι μυοσίναις τεριναίς.
(The 4th in Barnes.)
STREW me a breathing bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this delicious hour of joy,
Young Love shall be my goblet-boy;
Folding his little golden vest,
With cinctures, round his snowy breast,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!
Swift as the wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal:
A scanty dust, to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.
Why do we shed the rose's bloom
Upon the cold insensate tomb?
Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,
Affect the slumbering chill of death?
No, no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
But now, while every pulse is glowing,
Now let me breathe the balsam flowing;
Now let the rose, with blush of fire,
Upon my brow its scent expire.
ODE XXXII.
Μεσονυκτίοις ποτ ̓ ὡραις.
(The 3d in Barnes.)
"Twas noon of night, when round the pole The sullen Bear is seen to roll:
And mortals, wearied with the day,
Are slumbering all their cares away:
An infant, at that dreary hour,
Came weeping to my silent bower,
And wak'd me with a piteous prayer,
To save him from the midnight air!
"And who art thou," I waking cry,
"That bid'st my blissful visions fly?"
"O gentle sir!" the infant said,
"In pity take me to thy shed;
Nor fear deceit: a lonely child
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
Illumes the drear and misty way!"
I hear the baby's tale of woe;
I hear the bitter night-winds blow;
And sighing for his piteous fate,
I trimm'd my lamp and op'd the gate.
"Twas Love! the little wandering sprite,
His pinion sparkled through the night!
I knew him by his bow and dart;
I knew him by my fluttering heart!
I take him in, and fondly raise
The dying embers' cheering blaze;
Press from his dank and clinging hair
The crystals of the freezing air,
And in my hand and bosom hold
His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray
Had warm'd his anxious fears away;
"I pray thee," said the wanton child
(My bosom trembled as he smil'd),
"I pray thee let me try my bow,
For through the rain I've wander'd so,
That much I fear, the ceaseless shower
Has injur'd its elastic power."
The fatal bow the urchin drew;
Swift from the string the arrow flew;
Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame,
And to my very soul it came!
"Fare-thee-well," I heard him say,
As laughing wild he wing'd away;
"Fare-thee-well, for now I know
The rain has not relax'd my bow;
It still can send a madd'ning dart,
As thou shalt own with all thy heart!'
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