Odes of Anacreon, tr. into Engl. verse, with notes, by T. Moore

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Page 89 - See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand ! Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek ! Jul.
Page 195 - I love thee and hate thee, but if I can tell The cause of my love and my hate, may I die. I can feel it, alas! I can feel it too well, That I love thee and hate thee, but cannot tell why.
Page 112 - 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...
Page 174 - ODE LXII. FILL me, boy, as deep a draught, As e'er was fill'd, as e'er was quaff'd ; But let the water amply flow, To cool the grape's intemperate glow...
Page 155 - The rose distils a healing balm, The beating pulse of pain to calm ; Preserves the cold inurned clay, And mocks the vestige of decay : And when at length, in pale decline, Its florid beauties fade and pine, Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath Diffuses odour e'en in death ! Oh!
Page 93 - She gave the lion fangs of terror, And, on the ocean's crystal mirror, Taught the unnumber'd scaly throng To trace their liquid path along ; While for the umbrage of the grove, She plumed the warbling world of love.
Page 115 - 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 XXXV.
Page 67 - 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
Page 114 - 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.
Page 42 - As late I sought the spangled bowers, To cull a wreath of matin flowers, Where many an early rose was weeping, I found the urchin Cupid sleeping. I caught the boy, a goblet's tide Was richly mantling by my side ; I caught him by his downy wing, And whelm'd him in the racy spring.

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