ODE XXXIV.

O 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 thee 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 passed by thee,
Thou seem'st a little deity!

ODE XXXIV.

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!
"O 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 XXXVI.

IF hoarded gold possessed 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 !
Mine be the nymph whose form reposes
Seductive on that bed of roses;
And oh ! be mine the soul's excess,
Expiring in her warm caress!

ODE XXXVII.

'TWAS night, and many a circling bowl
Had deeply warmed my swimming soul;
As lulled in slumber I was laid,
Bright visions o'er my fancy played!
With virgins, blooming as the dawn,
I seemed to trace the opening lawn;
Light, on tiptoe bathed 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 slyly smiled;
Smiled indeed with wanton glee,
But, ah! 'twas plain they envied me.

And still I flew-and now I caught
The panting nymphs, and fondly thought
To kiss-when all my dream of joys,
Dimpled girls and ruddy boys,

All were gone! "Alas!" I said,
Sighing for the illusions fled,
"Sleep! again my joys restore,

Oh let me dream them o'er and o'er !"

ODE XXXVIII.

LET us drain the nectared bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectared 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,

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 nectared bowl,
And swell the choral song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectared bowl, the choral swell!

ODE XXXIX.

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 XL.

I KNOW that Heaven ordains me here
To run this mortal life's career;

The scenes which I have journeyed 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!

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 learned to dread

The gall that envy's tongue can shed.
Away-I hate the slanderous dart

Which steals to wound the 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 XLIII.

WHILE our rosy fillets shed
Blushes o'er each fervid head,

With many a cup and many a smile
The festal moments we beguile.

And while the harp, impassioned, flings
Tuneful rapture from the strings,

Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs,
Through the dance luxuriant swims,
Waving, in her snowy hand,
The leafy Bacchanalian wand,
Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
Shakes its tresses to her sighs!

A youth the while, with loosened hair,
Floating on the listless air,

Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone,
A tale of woes, alas! his own;

And then what nectar in his sigh,
As o'er his lip the murmurs die!
Surely never yet has been
So divine, so blest a scene!
Has Cupid left the starry sphere,
To wave his golden tresses here?
Oh yes! and Venus, queen of wiles,
And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles,
All, all are here, to hail with me
The genius of festivity!