ODE XXXIII.
Μακαρίζομεν σε τέττιξε
(The 43d in Barnes.)
Oн thou, of all creation blest,
Sweet insect! that delight'st to rest
Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,
To drink the dew that morning drops
And chirp thy song with such a glee.
That happiest kings may envy thee!
Whatever decks the velvet field,
Whate'er the circling seasons yield,
Whatever buds, whatever blows,
For thee it buds, for thee it grows.
Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear,
To him thy friendly notes are dear;
For thou art mild as matin dew,
And still, when summer's flowery hue
Begins to paint the bloomy plain,
We hear thy sweet prophetic strain;
Thy sweet, prophetic strain we hear,
And bless the notes and the revere!
The Muses love thy shrilly tone;
Apollo calls thee all his own;
"Twas he who gave that voice to thee,
"Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.
Unworn by age's dim decline,
The fadeless blooms of youth are thine,
Melodious insect! child of earth!
In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth :
Exempt from every weak decay,
That withers vulgar frames away;
With not a drop of blood to stain
The current of thy purer vein;
So blest an age is pass'd by thee,
Thou seem'st-a little deity!
ODE XXXIV.
Ερως ποτ' εν ροδοισι.
(The 40th in Barnes.)
CUPID Once upon a bed
Of roses laid his weary head
Luckless urchin, not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering bee!
The bee awak'd-with anger wild
The bee awak'd, 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!'
Ο πλουτος ειχε χρυσου.
(The 23d in Barnes.)
Ir hoarded gold possess'd a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore!
And every day should swell my store;
That when the Fates would send their minion,
To waft me off on shadowy pinion,
I might some hours of life obtain,
And bribe him back to hell again.
But, since we ne'er can charm away
The mandate of that awful day,
Why do we vainly weep at Fate,
And sigh for life's uncertain date?
The light of gold can ne'er illume
The dreary midnight of the tomb!
And why should I then pant for treasures?
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures;
The goblet rich, the board of friends,
Whose flowing souls the goblet blends'
ODE XXXVI.
Δια νυκτων εγκαθεύδων.
(The 8th in Barnes.)
'Twas night, and many a circling bowl
Had deeply warm'd 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 bath'd 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 smil'd;
Smil'd indeed with wanton glee,
But, ah! 'twas plain they envied me.
Λιαρον πιωμεν οίνο
(The 41st in Barnes.)
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 nurs'd 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,
And through the dance meandering glide
Let me imbibe the spicy breath
Of odours chaf'd to fragrant death;
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!
Φιλω γεροντα τερπνον.
(The 47th in Barnes.)
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 XXXIX.
Επειδη βροτος ετύχθην.
(The 24th in Barnes.)
I KNOW that Heaven ordains me here,
To run this mortal life's career;
The scenes which I have journied o'er
Return no more-alas! no more:
And all the path I've yet to go,
I neither know nor ask to know.
Then surely, Care, thou canst not twine
Thy fetters round a soul like mine;
No, no! the heart that feels with me,
Can never be a slave to thee!
And oh! before the vital thrill,
Which trembles at my heart, is still,
I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers,
And gild with bliss my fading hours;
Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom,
And Venus dance me to the tomb!
Τι καλον εστι βαδίζειν.
(The 66th in Barnes.)
WHEN Spring begems the dewy scene,
How sweet to walk the velvet green,
And hear the Zephyr's languid sighs,
As o'er the scented mead he flies!
How sweet to mark the pouting vine,
Ready to fall in tears of wine;
Where the imbowering branches meet-
Oh! is not this divinely sweet?
Ποθεω μεν Διονυσου.
(The 42d in Barnes.)
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!
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
|