This is a modern-English version of The Odes of Anacreon, originally written by Moore, Thomas.
It has been thoroughly updated, including changes to sentence structure, words, spelling,
and grammar—to ensure clarity for contemporary readers, while preserving the original spirit and nuance. If
you click on a paragraph, you will see the original text that we modified, and you can toggle between the two versions.
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THE ODES OF ANACREON.
THE ODES OF ANACREON.
TRANSLATED BY THOMAS MOORE.
WITH FIFTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIVE DESIGNS BY
GIRODET DE ROUSSY.
NOW FIRST PRODUCED IN ENGLAND.
LONDON:
JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, PICCADILLY.
LONDON:
Strangeways and Walden, Print Shop,
Castle St. Leicester Sq.
INTRODUCTION
TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.
Amongst the innumerable translators of Anacreon, there was one—a Frenchman by birth—who was both an illustrious painter and a literary enthusiast. Girodet de Roussy, inspired by a genius altogether Greek in its character, has translated Anacreon better by his pencil than he could have been translated by words. One might fancy that his designs had been executed under Anacreon's own eye by some Greek artist, who had himself witnessed that soft and voluptuous existence, where song and pleasure are one.
Aamongst the countless translators of Anacreon, there was one—a Frenchman by birth—who was both a talented painter and a literature lover. Girodet de Roussy, inspired by a distinctly Greek genius, has translated Anacreon more vividly with his brush than it could ever be with words. One could imagine that his artwork was created under Anacreon's watchful eye by some Greek artist who experienced that indulgent and sensuous life where song and pleasure are intertwined.
Seldom indeed have chasteness of execution and voluptuousness of character been so curiously and indissolubly blended. Seldom has a modern artist so happily caught the spirit of an ancient poet. We seem to [Pg 8]be transported, as in a dream, to the vines, and orange-groves, and cloudless skies of Greece, and the wearied spirit abandons itself for a while to the soft influences of the azure heaven, the countless luxuriance of roses, the undulating forms of the fair girls dancing in the shade, while youthful attendants brim the beaker with wine. Under such influences we remember that youth, and love, and mirth are immortal, and we say with Horace,—
Seldom have skill in execution and richness of character been so uniquely and inseparably combined. Rarely has a modern artist captured the essence of an ancient poet so perfectly. We feel as if we’ve been transported, like in a dream, to the vineyards, orange groves, and clear skies of Greece, and our tired spirits let go for a moment, surrendering to the gentle touches of the blue sky, the overwhelming beauty of roses, and the graceful figures of young women dancing in the shade, while youthful companions fill the cup with wine. In such moments, we are reminded that youth, love, and joy are eternal, and we echo Horace,—
In that close wrestle of the genius that imitates with the genius that creates, Girodet alone came out from the trial successfully. He has shown himself the rival of Anacreon in grace, in abandon, in naïveté. He has succeeded in depicting his poet's theme with equal elegance and delicacy. Loving with a real love those old Greek songs, he has displayed them in living beauty before our eyes in fifty-four exquisite drawings. To attempt such a masterpiece required a poet's as well as a painter's skill; and Girodet was both a painter and a poet.
In the tight competition between the genius that imitates and the genius that creates, Girodet emerged as the sole victor. He proved himself to be a worthy rival to Anacreon in charm, in freedom, and in innocence. He managed to capture his poet's theme with equal elegance and sensitivity. With a genuine love for those ancient Greek songs, he brought them to life in fifty-four stunning drawings. Pulling off such a masterpiece demanded the talent of both a poet and a painter, and Girodet was both.
Do not take advantage of his youthful talents.
In examining these compositions, one cannot abstain from a certain kind of surprise: all the odes of Anacreon revolve upon two or three central ideas, expressed in a manner full of grace, unquestionably, but still always the same ideas. The artist, while not deviating from the narrow circle traced for him by the poet, shows a fecundity and variety that are truly marvellous—that astonish and enchant us at the same time. The nobility, elegance, and wealth of accessories that prevail throughout the whole series might, as we have already hinted, lead us to suppose that we owed them to one of the famous artists that Greece produced: the painter and the poet seem to have been born under one heaven, and informed with one soul.
In looking at these compositions, one can't help but feel a certain surprise: all of Anacreon's odes focus on two or three main ideas, expressed in a truly graceful way, but they are still always the same ideas. The artist, while staying within the narrow boundaries set by the poet, demonstrates a creativity and variety that are genuinely amazing—both astonishing and enchanting us at the same time. The nobility, elegance, and richness of details that are present throughout the entire collection might, as we've already suggested, lead us to believe that they come from one of the famous artists of Greece: the painter and the poet seem to be born under the same sky and share the same spirit.
The manners of the time in which Anacreon lived permitted him to say many things which, in their crudity, might offend our modern taste. Girodet is not less voluptuous than Anacreon; but he always maintains that grace and delicacy which add so great a charm to the voluptuous: nowhere in his animated panorama is sight or sense shocked.
The social norms during Anacreon's time allowed him to express many things that, due to their rawness, might upset our modern sensibilities. Girodet is just as sensual as Anacreon; however, he consistently demonstrates the grace and subtlety that enhance the allure of sensuality: in his vibrant scenes, there's nothing that shocks the eye or the senses.
These designs originally accompanied a translation of the Odes of Anacreon, made by the painter himself and published shortly after his[Pg 10] death. Some small photographs of them on a greatly reduced scale appeared in 1864, in an exquisite little edition of the original Greek, from the press of Firmin Didot, at the almost prohibitive price of Two Pounds. The present reproductions are on a scale more proportionate with the originals, and constitute the first appearance of Girodet's designs in England, where, we feel assured, they will be appreciated as they deserve by all true lovers of classical art.
These designs were originally part of a translation of the Odes of Anacreon, done by the painter himself and published shortly after his[Pg 10] death. Some small photos of them at a much smaller size were included in 1864, in a beautiful little edition of the original Greek, printed by Firmin Didot, at the nearly unaffordable price of Two Pounds. The current reproductions are closer in scale to the originals and mark the first time Girodet's designs have appeared in England, where we believe they will be appreciated as they deserve by all true lovers of classical art.
The English verse-translation of Moore has been chosen to accompany them, because, though it has often been objected to by the learned for its imperfect scholarship, it seemed to us to be most in harmony with the real spirit of the great French painter, and of the old Greek poet himself.
The English verse translation by Moore has been selected to accompany them because, although many scholars have often criticized it for its lack of scholarly precision, it struck us as being the most in tune with the true essence of the great French painter and the ancient Greek poet himself.
Oct. 25, 1869.
Oct. 25, 1869.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
FRONTISPIECE—THE APOTHEOSIS OF ANACREON.
Frontispiece—The Apotheosis of Anacreon.
I often wish this languid lyre,
This warbler of my soul's desire,
Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
'Our sighs are given to love alone!'
Indignant at the feeble lay,
I tore the panting chords away,
Attuned them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell;
I often wish this tired lyre,
This singer of my dreams,
Could create a perfect song,
For well-known men from long ago.
But when I attempt the uplifting theme,
My notes just seem to flow along the strings.
To whisper, with a softening voice,
"Our sighs are only for love!"
Frustrated with this lame chorus,
I tore the gasping strings away,
Adjusted them for a more powerful sound,
And hit the living circle again;
[Pg 17]
I call upon the lyre for Hercules!
But still, its faint sighs repeat,
"The story of love is beautiful all on its own!" Then goodbye, tempting dream,
That made me follow the theme of Glory; For you are my lyre, and you are my heart,
Will never again part in spirit; And you will feel the flame too. As the flame will sweetly reveal.
TO all that breathe the airs of heaven,
Some boon of strength has Nature given.
When the majestic bull was born,
She fenced his brow with wreathèd horn.
She arm'd the courser's foot of air,
And wing'd with speed the panting hare.
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,
To everyone who breathes the sky's air,
Nature has given some gift of strength.
When the magnificent bull was born,
She decorated his head with twisted horns.
She got the horse ready for the air,
And gave the quick hare its speed.
She gave the lion terrifying fangs,
And, on the clear surface of the ocean,
Taught the many fish to find their way
Their flexible paths;
While in the shade of the grove,
To man she gave the refined flame,
The brilliance of the universe—a thoughtful mind!
And did she have no greater treasure,
For you, oh woman! child of pleasure? She gave you beauty—glimpses of her eyes,
That every arrow of war flies faster!
She gave you beauty—the blush of fire,
That calls for the flames of war to retreat!
Woman! Be just, we must admire you; Smile, and the world becomes powerless before you!
'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 waked me with a piteous prayer,
To save him from the midnight air!
'And who art thou,' I waking cry,
'That bidd'st my blissful visions fly?'
'O gentle sire!' the infant said,
'In pity take me to thy shed;
Nor fear deceit: a lonely child
I wander o'er the gloomy wild.
It was midnight when the gloomy Bear
Was rolling around the pole;
And people, tired from the day,
They were sleeping all their worries away;
At that gloomy hour, a baby,
Came crying to my peaceful spot,
And woke me with a sad request,
To protect him from the midnight cold!
"And who are you?" I called out as I awoke.
'That ruins my peaceful dreams?'
"Oh kind sir!" the baby said,
"Please take me into your shelter;
And don’t worry about deception: a lonely child
I roam through the dark wilderness.
I hear the baby's story of sadness;
I hear the cold night winds blowing; And sighing for his sad fate,
I trimmed my lamp and opened the gate.
His wings sparkled in the night!
I recognized him by his bow and arrow;
I recognized him by my racing heart!
I welcome him in and lovingly raise The dying embers' glowing fire;
And hold in my hand and against my chest. His tiny fingers felt cold. And now the warm glow of the embers Had eased his worried fears:
I've wandered through the rain so, That’s how much I dread the constant rain. Has injured its flexibility.'
The deadly bow the kid pulled back; Quickly from the string, the arrow shot.
"Farewell," I heard him say, As he laughed wildly, he flew away: Goodbye for now, I understand now
The rain hasn't eased my spirit; It can still shoot a frustrating dart,
As you shall own with all your heart!'
STREW me a breathing bed of leaves,
Where lotos 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,
Lay down a bed of leaves for me,
Where lotuses mix with myrtles;
As I drift into the dream of luxury,
Let me enjoy the sweet wine of Bacchus!
In this delightful moment of happiness,
Young Love will be my cupbearer;
Wearing his small golden vest,
Wrapped around his pale chest,
He'll be by my side,
And bring me the fine wine!
Quick as the wheels that spin with fire,
Our lives hurry toward the end:
A little bit of dust to feed the wind,
It's all the evidence it will leave behind.
Why do we spread the petals of the rose?
At the cold, unfeeling grave?
Can a gentle breeze or the breath of a scent,
No, no; I’m not looking for any relief to soak. With fragrant tears on my bed of sleep:
But now, as every heartbeat is vibrant,
Now let me breathe the flowing balm; Now let the rose, with a blush of fire,
The scent fades away from my forehead; And bring the nymph with the wandering eye,—
Oh! She will teach me how to die!
Yes, Cupid! before my soul departs,
To join the blessed heavenly choir,
With wine, love, and sweet moments, I'll create my own paradise here!
BUDS of roses, virgin flowers,
Cull'd from Cupid's balmy bowers,
In the bowl of Bacchus steep,
Till with crimson drops they weep!
Twine the rose, the garland twine,
Every leaf distilling wine;
Drink and smile, and learn to think
That we were born to smile and drink.
Rose! thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower;
Rose! thou art the fondest child
Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild!
E'en the gods, who walk the sky,
Are amorous of thy scented sigh.
Cupid too, in Paphian shades,
His hair with rosy fillet braids,
When with the blushing naked Graces,
The wanton winding dance he traces.
Buds of roses, pristine blooms,
Picked from Cupid's sweet gardens,
Soaked in Bacchus' cup,
Until they shed tears of crimson!
Braid the roses, create the garland,
Every petal soaked in wine;
Drink and smile, and remember to think.
That we were meant to smile and drink.
Rose! You are the sweetest flower.
That was always soaked in golden rain;
Rose! You are the cherished child
Of playful Spring, the wild forest nymph!
Even the gods that wander the skies,
Are captivated by your sweet sighs.
Cupid also, in the shadows of Paphos,
Braid his hair with rose garlands,
As he dances with the blushing Graces,
Tracing the playful winding dance.
Great Bacchus! in your sacred shade,
With a glowing celestial being,
While storms of roses surround me,
In perfume, sweetened by her sighs,
I’ll charge and weave in a light dance,
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, impassion'd, 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 loosen'd hair,
Floating on the listless air,
Sings to the wild harp's tender tone,
WHILE our pink fillets shed
Blushes on every eager face,
With lots of drinks and plenty of smiles,
We celebrate the special occasions in style.
And while the harp, full of emotion, plays
Joyful tunes from its strings,
A playful nymph, moving gracefully,
Moves gracefully through the dance,
Waving in her snowy hand,
The leafy party wand,
As the lively dancer twirls,
Shakes its leaves in response to her sighs;
A young man, meanwhile, with long hair,
Drifting on the soft breeze,
Sings to the gentle sounds of the harp,
Surely has never happened yet
Such a heavenly and blessed sight!
Has Cupid left the sky above,
To flaunt his golden hair here?
Oh yes! And Venus, the queen of tricks,
And Bacchus, spreading cheerful vibes,
Everyone is here to celebrate with me. The brilliance of celebration!
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,
Equipped with a beautiful rod,
(Enough for such a god,)
Cupid told me to speed things up,
And race him in a fast competition.
Through the wild, rugged, and deep river.
Through dense bushes and steep cliffs,
With tired feet, I gasped for breath,
My forehead was wet with drops of dew.
And now my soul, exhausted and fading,
When Cupid hovered over my head,
And waving light his airy feathers,
Brought me back from my tired sadness; Then said, in a half-reproving tone, "Why have you been an enemy to love?"
'TWAS night, and many a circling bowl
Had deeply warmed 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 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 slily smiled;
Smiled indeed with wanton glee,
But, ah! 'twas plain they envied me.
It was nighttime, and many drinks
Had truly warmed my dizzy soul;
As I lay peacefully asleep,
Bright visions danced in my mind!
With young women flourishing like the morning,
I felt like I was wandering through the open meadow;
Light, softly stepping and covered in dew,
We flew and had fun while we flew!
Some young guys, bright and smooth,
With a flush from drinking on their cheeks,
Saw me hop through the flowery wilderness
With smiling girls, and hidden smirks;
They truly smiled with playful happiness,
But, oh! it was clear they were jealous of me.
Everyone was gone! "Oh no!" I said, Sighing for the lost dreams,
'Sleep! bring back my joys,
Oh! Let me dream about them again and again!
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:
Tell me, why, my sweetest dove,
Do your wet wings flap like this,
Dispersing in the air in bursts
The smell of the sweetest flowers?
Tell me where you're from, where you go,
Share everything, my sweetest dove.—
Curious stranger! I belong
To the poet of Teian song:
But the poet more than anyone!
Venus, for a love song,
Sung in her sacred grove,
It was truly a gentle song, Gave me to the bard instead.
On the mountain's wild rise;
Searching in the desert wood Dark shelter, homestyle food.
Now I live a life of leisure, Away from retreats like these; [Pg 62] I eat from Anacreon's hand Food is delicious, dishes are sweet; Flutter over his goblet's brim,
Enjoy the frothy wine with him.
Then I dance and frolic around
To the enchanting sound of the lyre; Or with softly flapping wings
Shade the minstrel while he sings:
Still dreaming of sweet melodies!
This is all—go away—
You've made me waste the whole day. How I've chattered! Talking crow Never has there been such chatter.
'TELL me, gentle youth, I pray thee,
What in purchase shall I pay thee
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!
"Tell me, young friend, please,
What's it gonna cost me?
For this small wax figure,
"Picture of the Paphian boy?"
So I mentioned the other day,
To a young person who crossed my path:
"Sir," he responded, and throughout that time
Answered in a country style,
"Just take it, just a little bit;
Don't think that I could do it;
Please believe it wasn't me;
No—it cost me a lot of sighs,
And I can't hold on anymore
"Little gods, who ruin sleep!"
He will be my close guest,
Idol of my devout heart! Little Love! you are now mine,
Warm me with that torch of yours;
Make me feel how I have felt,
Or your wax figure will melt.
I have to be consumed by strong desire,
Or you, my boy, in that fire!
ODE XI.
ODE 11.
THE women tell me every day,
That all my bloom has past away.
'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry,
'Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And like the rest, they're withering too!'
Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
The women tell me every day,
All my beauty has faded away.
"Hey," the attractive ones shout,
'Look at this mirror with a sigh;
Your hair is thinning out,
"And like the others, it's disappearing quickly!"
Whether getting older has thinned my hair,
I honestly don't know or care;
But I know this, and I feel this,
That stillness, as death draws closer,
The joys of life are more enjoyable and precious, If I only had an hour left to live,
I’d give that little hour of happiness!
ODE XII.
ODE 12.
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 hoped 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,
I will; I will; the past conflict,
And I’ll finally agree to love.
Cupid has always had a charming smile,
Invited me to give him my heart;
And I believed that peace of mind
Shouldn't be given up for a smile;
And I resisted the gentle temptation,
And hoped my heart would remain safe.
However, overlooked in his supposed charms,
The angry little guy grabbed his arms;
He proudly slung his golden quiver,
He grabbed his bow and his fiery arrows,
And confidently asked me to submit,
I took up arms, fearless as well; Put on the breastplate, grabbed the shield, and took up the spear,
And, like Achilles, smiled in the face of fear. Then (listen up, all you powers above!)
I battled with Love! I battled with Love!
[Pg 78] And now all his arrows had fallen. And I had just escaped in fear—
When letting out an annoyed sigh To see me fly here unhurt,
And now having no other option, He looked right into my heart!
My heart—oh, what a day!
Received the god and passed away.
Your lord has finally been forced to give in.
Every outward concern is pointless, My enemy is inside, and they are winning there.
ODE XIII.
ODE XIII.
I CARE not for the idle state
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great!
I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the treasured gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy braid,
The fervour of my brows to shade;
Be mine the odours, richly sighing,
Amidst my hoary tresses flying.
To-day, I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then—
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimm'd their bloomy light,
I don't care about a life of leisure.
Of the Persian king, so wealthy and magnificent!
I don't envy the king's power,
Or want to claim the gold as mine.
But oh! let me have the rosy wreath,
To hide the intensity from my forehead;
Let me enjoy the scents that come up,
As they move through my silver hair.
Today, I’m going to quickly drink my wine,
Like tomorrow isn't even going to happen;
But if tomorrow comes, then—
I’ll quickly drink my wine again.
And while our days are still so bright,
And time hasn't dimmed their brightness,
The finest drop at Bacchus' shrine!
For Death may arrive, with an unpleasant expression,
He may come when we least want him to be here,
And call to the dark shore,
And sternly told us to drink no more!
ODE XIV.
ODE 14.
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;
Your harp can tell the tales of the battles of Troy,
Or share the stories of Theban warriors;
With other conflicts, my song will shine,
For other injuries, my harp will lament.
It wasn't the arrow of the armored warrior,
That touched the depths of my heart;
Neither naval weapons nor armored horses,
Have made this broken heart bleed;
A bunch of fluttering cupids flew; And now my heart lies here, all bleeding. Beneath this army of eyes!
ODE XV.
ODE 15.
GRAVE me a cup with brilliant grace,
Deep as the rich and holy vase,
Which on the shrine of Spring reposes,
When shepherds hail that hour of roses.
Grave it with themes of chaste design,
Form'd for a heavenly bowl like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites,
In which religious zeal delights;
Pour me a cup with brilliant grace,
As deep as that valuable and sacred vase,
Which rests on Spring's altar,
When shepherds celebrate the season of roses.
Incorporate elements of clean design,
Designed for a bowl as divine as mine.
Skip the cruel rituals,
That religious passion finds joy in;
Which history is trembling to share!
No—remove your thoughts from above,
Themes of heaven and themes of love. Let Bacchus, Jove's heavenly boy, Distill the grape into drops of joy,
[Pg 94] And while he smiles at every tear, Let warm-eyed Venus dance nearby,
With the warm spirits of the cozy bed,
The dewy grass skillfully walked. Let love be present, even without his embrace,
In shy, bare beauty;
Blushing in the shadowy grove; While rosy boys play around,
In circles, they walk on the soft ground; But oh! if there are Apollo toys, I'm worried for my sweet boys!
ODE XVI.
ODE 16.
THE Phrygian rock that braves the storm,
Was once a weeping matron's form;
And Progne, hapless, frantic maid,
Is now a swallow in the shade.
Oh! that a mirror's form were mine,
To sparkle with that smile divine;
And like my heart I then should be,
Reflecting thee, and only thee!
Or were I, love, the robe which flows
O'er every charm that secret glows,
In many a lucid fold to swim,
And cling and grow to every limb!
Oh! could I, as the streamlet's wave,
Thy warmly-mellowing beauties lave,
Or float as perfume on thine hair,
The Phrygian rock that endures the storm,
Was once the shape of a grieving woman;
And Progne, poor desperate girl,
Is there a swallow in the shade now?
Oh! If only I could be a mirror,
To glow with that heavenly smile;
And just like my heart, I would be,
Reflecting you, and only you!
Or if I were, my love, the flowing robe
Covering every hidden gem,
Swimming in many clear waves,
Embracing and thriving on every branch!
Oh! if I could, like the stream's wave,
Embrace your softly glowing beauty,
Or drift like fragrance in your hair,
I wish I were the area that lies Embrace it close, and feel its sighs!
Or like those jealous pearls that display So subtly around that snowy neck, Sure, I'd be a happy gem,
Like them, to hang, to fade like them.
What else could your Anacreon be? Oh! anything that touches you.
No, sandals for those light feet—
Being with you would be wonderful!
ODE XVII.
ODE 17.
NOW the star of day is high,
Fly, my girls, in pity fly,
Bring me wine in brimming urns,
Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!
Sunn'd by the meridian fire,
Panting, languid I expire!
Give me all those humid flowers,
Drop them o'er my brow in showers.
Scarce a breathing chaplet now
Lives upon my feverish brow;
Now the sun is up,
Hurry up, my girls, please fly.
Bring me wine in full cups,
Cool my lips; they’re on fire, they’re on fire!
Baked by the noon heat,
Panting, I can hardly breathe!
Give me all those wet flowers,
Shower them on my forehead.
There’s barely a trace of a crown left.
On my hot forehead;
But for you, my passionate thoughts!
Oh! What shelter will I find? Can the bowl or the dew on the flower, Cool the flame that burns you?
ODE XVIII.
Ode 18.
IF hoarded gold possess'd a power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the land 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?
If collected gold had the ability
To make the most of life's brief moments,
And buy some time from death's realm,
A quick moment, a breath away,
How I would treasure that precious gold!
And every day my wealth would increase;
So when the Fates would send their messenger,
To take me away on shadowy wings,
I could gain some extra hours of life,
And pay him to go back to hell instead.
But, since we can never get away
The events of that terrible day,
Why do we stupidly cry about fate,
And wish for life's unpredictable conclusion?
The gleam of gold can never shine brighter.
The dark midnight of the grave!
And why should I want wealth then?
Whose flowing spirits the cup mixes:
Let me be the nymph whose body rests Alluring on that bed of roses; And oh! let me have the soul's abundance,
Expiring in her warm embrace!
ODE XIX.
ODE XIX.
WHEN my thirsty soul I steep,
Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep.
Talk of monarchs! I am then
Richest, happiest, first of men;
Careless, o'er my cup I sing,
Fancy makes me more than king;
Gives me wealthy Crœsus' store,
Can I, can I wish for more?
On my velvet couch reclining,
Ivy leaves my brow entwining,
While my soul dilates with glee,
What are kings and crowns to me?
WHEN my thirsty soul I soak,
All sorrows are put to rest.
Forget about kings! I'm feeling like
The richest, happiest person ever;
I sing happily over my drink,
Imagination makes me more powerful than a king;
Gives me Crœsus' wealth,
Can I, can I want something more?
On my comfy couch sprawled,
Ivy leaves crown my head,
As my soul fills with joy,
What do kings and crowns signify for me?
I would push them all away!
Get ready, get ready, strong men, Rush to the upbeat fight; Let me, oh my growing vine,
Spill no blood other than your own.
Check out that full goblet,
That alone will defeat me.
Oh! I think it's much sweeter. To fall at a feast rather than in battle!
ODE XX.
ODE 20.
WHEN Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy,
The rosy harbinger of joy,
Who, with the sunshine of the bowl,
Thaws the winter of our soul;
When to the inmost core he glides,
And bathes it with his ruby tides,
A flow of joy, a lively heat,
Fires my brain, and wings my feet;
'Tis surely something sweet, I think,
Nay, something heavenly sweet, to drink!
WHEN Bacchus, the eternal son of Jupiter,
The happy sign of joy,
Who, with the warmth of the drink,
Melts away the winter in our hearts;
When he moves deeply inside us,
And cleanses us with his ruby waves,
A rush of happiness, a lively warmth,
Ignites my thoughts and lifts my feet;
It’s definitely something sweet, I think,
No, something sweet and heavenly to drink!
While, my young Venus, you and I To the sultry rhythm die!
Then waking from our relaxed daze,
Once more we'll have fun, once more we'll dance.
ODE XXI.
ODE 21.
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 her crescent gliding,
Just commingling, just dividing.
But hast thou any sparkles warm,
The lightning of her eyes to form?
You, with your gentle and rosy hues,
Mimic the form and capture the essence;
Best artists! Let's create together
The beautiful girl who is far away.
Far away, my soul! You are,
But I've remembered all your charms.
Paint her dark curls flowing,
Silky strands blowing in tendrils;
And if painting requires skill
To create the aromatic balm,
Let every small lock open
A whiff of scent in the breeze.
Where her dark curls flow
Lies over a snowy hill,
Let her forehead shine with light,
Polished like shiny ivory.
Let her brows softly lift
In the dark shadows under her eyes,
Gracefully in a crescent shape,
Just blending, just parting.
But do you have any warm sparkles,
The lightning in her eyes to capture?
And give them all that liquid fire That Venus' dreamy eyes breathe.
Over her nose and cheek is shed Flushing white and soft red;
Gradual shades, like when it shines In the snowy white, the shy rose appeared. Then her lip, so filled with pleasures!
Sweet asker for kisses! Pouting nest of bland persuasion, Ripley suing Love's invasion.
Then under the velvet chin,
Whose dimple hides a love inside,
Shape her neck with elegance as it descends.
In a paradise of beauty coming to an end; While light charms, above, below,
Sport and gamble on its snow.
Now let a clear, floating veil, Shadow her limbs, but don’t hide; A charm might shine through, and a color might glow,
And let Fancy's dream take care of the rest.
Enough—it's her! It's all I want; It shines, it exists, and it will soon talk.
ODE XXII.
ODE 22.
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 dye 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 polished glow.
Front as fair as mountain-snow,
And guileless as the dews of dawn,
NOW, with all your pencil skills,
Capture Bathyllus, the handsome youth!
Let his hair shine bright,
Like streaming beams of light,
And blend the raven's dark color
With the warm colors of the sunlight.
Don't be fooled by the braid and its clever twist,
Control his hairstyle;
But let every golden curl fall loose,
To dance in the breeze,
Beneath a perfectly glowing forehead.
A forehead as beautiful as snow on a mountain,
And as pure as the morning dew,
Of black dice, enhanced by gold,
Like the scaly snakes unwind.
Mingle in his casual looks,
Power that amazes, and love that captivates;
Steal from Venus dull desire,
Borrow from Mars the appearance of fire,
Blend them into this expression here,
That we can alternate between hope and fear!
Now from the sunny apple, seek
The soft velvet that covers his cheek;
And there, let Beauty's rosy light In flying blushes play richly; Blushes, of that heavenly glow Which brightens the cheek of innocent shame.
[Pg 126] Then for his lips, that perfect gem— But just let your mind picture them!
Paint, where the ruby cell opens up,
Persuasion resting on roses;
And give his lips that expressive look,
It was as if a word was floating there!
His neck shines with ivory beauty,
Shaped with a gentle yet masculine grace; Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy,
Where Paphia's arms have hung in happiness.
Give him the hand of the winged Hermes.
With which he waves his snake-like wand: Let Bacchus fill the cup then, And Leda's son, the strong thigh.
But oh! fill his limbs with fire
With all that brightness of youthful longing,
Is jealous of the joy that the eye experiences,
Or its passionate touch would show His shoulder, as fair as snow without sunlight,
Which now lies in hidden shadow,
Seen only through Fancy's eyes,
Now, for his feet—but wait— I see a divine portrait there;
So like Bathyllus! I’m sure there’s no one else like him. So, like Bathyllus but the Sun!
Oh! Let this image of a god be mine,
And keep the boy at the shrine of Samos; Phoebus will then be Bathyllus,
Bathyllus, then the god!
ODE XXIII.
ODE 23.
ONE day, the Muses twined the hands
Of baby Love, with flowery bands;
And to celestial Beauty gave
The captive infant as her slave.
His mother comes with many a toy,
To ransom her beloved boy;
His mother sues, but all in vain!
One day, the Muses joined their hands
Of baby Love, with flowery bands;
And handed the captive baby to heavenly Beauty
As her servant.
His mom brings a lot of toys,
To save her beloved boy;
His mother pleads, but it's all in vain!
No, if they take away his chains,
The little captive still wouldn't leave. 'If this is a form of bondage,' he shouts, Who would want freedom?
ODE XXIV.
ODE 24.
FLY not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though the brilliant flush is thine,
Still I'm doom'd to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!
See, in yonder flowery braid,
Cull'd for thee, my blushing maid,
Don’t run away from this snow on my forehead,
Beautiful tease! Don't rush.
Even though I'm aging,
And you're still lively and shining,
I’m still here, missing you,
Lucky me, if you could long for me as well!
Check out that flower arrangement,
Chosen just for you, my sweet girl,
Mingles with the lily's white; Mark how nicely their colors match,
Just like you and me, my girl!
ODE XXV.
ODE 25.
METHINKS, the pictur'd bull we see
Is amorous Jove—it must be he!
How fondly blest he seems to bear
That fairest of Phœnician fair!
How proud he breasts the foamy tide
And spurns the billowy surge aside!
Could any beast of vulgar vein,
Undaunted thus defy the main?
No: he descends from climes above,
He looks the God, he breathes of Jove!
I think the bull shown in the picture we see
Is it the romantic Jove? It must be him!
He seems so lovingly blessed to carry
That beautiful Phoenician woman!
How confidently he stands against the foamy waves.
And pushes the rolling waves aside!
Could any regular animal,
Are you really going to challenge the sea like this?
No: he comes from heavenly places,
He looks like a god, he feels like Jupiter!
ODE XXVI.
ODE XXVI.
AWAY, away, you men of rules,
What have I to do with schools?
They'd make me learn, they'd make me think,
But would they make me love and drink?
Teach me this; and let me swim
My soul upon the goblet's brim;
Teach me this, and let me twine
[Pg 142]
My arms around the nymph divine!
Age begins to blanch my brow,
I've time for nought but pleasure now.
Fly, and cool my goblet's glow
At yonder fountain's gelid flow;
I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink
Leave, you rule-following guys,
Why should I care about schools?
They want to educate me; they want me to think,
But would they help me love and drink?
Show me how; and let me drift.
My spirit on the rim of the glass;
Show me how, and let me finish up.
[Pg 142]
My arms around the beautiful one!
Time is beginning to turn my hair gray,
I have no time for anything except fun right now.
Quick, and cool down my drink’s heat.
At that fountain's chilly water;
I'll drink, my friend, and quietly fade away.
Soon, far too soon, my cheerful servant,
You'll decorate your master's grassy grave; And there's a conclusion—because ah! you know They drink very little wine down here!
ODE XXVII.
POEM XXVII.
SEE the young, the rosy Spring,
Gives to the breeze her spangled wing;
While virgin Graces, warm with May,
Fling roses o'er her dewy way!
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languished into silent sleep;
And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave;
While cranes from hoary winter fly
To flutter in a kinder sky.
Now the genial star of day
See the young, vibrant Spring,
Gives her sparkling wings to the breeze;
While fresh Graces, warmed by May,
Scatter roses along her moist path!
The calm waves of the deep
Have drifted into peaceful sleep;
Look! The playful seabirds dive
Their feathers in the gleaming wave;
While cranes escape the cold of winter
To enjoy a more welcoming sky.
Now the warm sun of day
And cultivated fields, and winding streams,
Are gently woven by his light.
Now the earth abundantly swells With leafy buds and blooming flowers; Gemming shoots the olive string,
Clusters ready hang on the vine; All along the creeping branches,
Through the soft leaves peeking, Little baby fruits we see Nursing in style!
ODE XXVIII.
ODE 28.
'TIS true, my fading years decline,
Yet I can quaff the brimming wine,
As deep as any stripling fair,
Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear;
And if, amidst the wanton crew,
I'm call'd to wind the dance's clue,
Thou shall behold this vigorous hand,
Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,
It's true, my later years are going by.
Yet I can drink the whole wine,
As deeply as any young man,
Whose cheeks shine like the morning;
And if, among the playful crowd,
I'm called to lead the dance,
You will see this strong hand,
Not straying from the drinker's staff,
Let those who yearn for the allure of fame, Embrace her in your arms; While my unremarkable calm soul
Doesn't express a wish beyond the bowl.
[Pg 154] Then fill it up, my red-faced servant,
And immerse me in its sweet wave!
Though my waning years fade away,
And even though my bloom has faded, Like ancient Silenus, divine lord,
With cheeks warmed by my wine, I'll be carefree among the dancing crowd,
And relive all my mistakes again!
ODE XXIX.
ODE 29.
WHEN I drink, I feel, I feel,
Visions of poetic zeal!
Warm with the goblet's fresh'ning dews,
My heart invokes the heavenly Muse.
When I drink my sorrow's o'er;
I think of doubts and fears no more;
But scatter to the railing wind
Each gloomy phantom of the mind!
When I drink, the jesting boy
Bacchus himself partakes my joy;
And while we dance through breathing bowers,
Whose every gale is rich with flowers,
In bowls he makes my senses swim,
[Pg 158]
Till the gale breathes of nought but him!
When I drink, I deftly twine
Flowers, begemm'd with tears of wine;
And, while with festive hand I spread
The smiling garland round my head,
Something whispers in my breast,
How sweet it is to live at rest!
When I drink, and perfume stills
Around me all in balmy rills,
Then as some beauty, smiling roses,
In languor on my breast reposes,
Venus! I breathe my vows to thee,
In many a sigh of luxury!
When I drink, my heart refines,
And rises as the cup declines;
WHEN I drink, I feel, I feel,
Poetic passion visions!
Warm with the fresh dew from the cup,
My heart calls on the divine Muse.
When I drink, my troubles disappear;
I no longer think about doubts and fears;
But scatter to the howling wind
Every gloomy thought that fills my mind!
When I drink, the playful god,
Bacchus himself joins in my happiness;
As we dance through scented groves,
Where every breeze brings the smell of flowers,
In bowls, he makes my senses spin,
[Pg 158]
Until the air is filled with just him!
When I drink, I skillfully weave
Flowers, decorated with drops of wine;
And while I cheerfully place
The smiling wreath around my head,
Something whispers in my heart,
How wonderful it is to live in peace!
When I drink and sweet fragrances
Surround me like soft streams,
Then like some beautiful, smiling roses,
Leisurely rests on my chest,
Venus! I express my promises to you,
In so many moments of luxury!
When I drink, I feel a sense of joy,
And rises as the cup gets empty;
That only social souls understand,
When young party-goers gather around the drink,
Connect soul with soul!
When I drink, the joy is mine;
There's joy in every drop of wine!
All the other joys I've experienced,
I've barely dared to call it my own;
But this the Fates can never destroy,
Until death casts a shadow over all my happiness!
ODE XXX.
ODE 30.
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!
'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
CUPID once rested his weary head
On a bed of roses instead;
Unlucky little guy, didn’t notice
A sleepy bee hiding in the leaves!
The bee woke up—filled with anger
The bee woke up and stung the child.
His cries are loud and sorrowful;
He rushed to Venus, he flies!
"Oh, Mom! I'm hurt all over—
I'm in so much pain—seriously!
Stung by a small, angry creature,
A small snake with tiny wings—
It was a bee—because I know
How must the heart, oh, Cupid! be,
The unfortunate heart that's hurt by you?
ODE XXXI.
ODE 31.
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 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!
Let's finish the sweet bowl,
Let’s sing the song of the heart.
To Him, the God who loves so deeply
The sweet bowl, the uplifting song!
Him, who educates the children of the earth
To move through the chaotic dance of joy;
Him, who was raised with youthful Love,
And held in the grove of Paphos;
The beautiful Queen of Charms loves him,
Has held in her warm embrace.
From Him who dreams of happiness flows,
Which sweet high knows;
With Him, the brow stops frowning,
And radiant qualities learn to shine.
Look! My friends have a goblet,
Whose bright foam fills the air.
Where are the tears and sighs now?
To the winds they soar, they soar!
Oh! Can the tears we give to thought In life's account, does anything benefit us? Can we understand, with all our knowledge,
The path we have yet to travel? No, no! Life's journey is difficult;
Only wine can ignite a spark!
Then let me drink the frothy wave,
And through the dance, it gracefully flows; Let me take in the spicy air. Of scents worn down to sweet death; Or breathe in the kiss of love A fuller, richer breeze!
To souls that seek the ghost of Care,
Let him retire and cover him there; As we drink from the sweet bowl,
And let the choir of the soul sing louder To him, the God who loves so deeply The sweet nectar bowl, the choir's rise!
ODE XXXII.
ODE 32.
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!
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;
Yes, let my celebration be amazing,
Where laughter shines in the wine!
Let the young crowd around me sing
In response to my captivating music;
And as the red cup gets passed around,
Let's let our souls mix just like our sounds!
Let the beautiful girl, with a timid look,
Lie next to me, all shy;
And while she creates a beautiful band
To adorn my hair with hyacinths,
Oh! let me take her secret kisses,
And that will be my greatest joy!
My soul, aligned with festive vibes,
Has never experienced a moment of jealousy;
Which sneaks in to hurt the unsuspecting heart;
And oh! I absolutely hate, with all my heart,
Loud noises over the bowl,
Where every warm heart should be
In tune with peace and harmony.
Come, let’s listen to the spirit of music. Expire the silver harp. And through the dance's spiral movement, With young women falling in love:
So simply happy, so at peace,
Of course, such a life should never end!
ODE XXXIII.
ODE 33.
'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 twined
(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?
It was in a vivid dream at night,
I thought I took off.
On wings quicker than the wind,
While little Love, whose feet were tangled
(I don’t know why) with chains made of lead,
Chased me while I ran in fear;
Chased—and could I have ever imagined this?—
As soon as I was caught!
What does this playful fantasy represent
By such a bizarre, misleading sight?
That you, my girl, have stolen my peace; Though my imagination, for a time, Has relied on many women's smiles,
I quickly broke the temporary promise,
And never was caught by love until now!
ODE XXXIV.
ODE 34.
AS in the Lemnian caves of fire,
The mate of her who nursed Desire
Moulded the glowing steel, to form
Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;
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 smiled
Derision on the archer-child.
Just like in the blazing caves of Lemnos,
The partner of the one who fostered Desire
Molded the glowing steel to form
Arrows for Cupid, exciting and soothing;
While Venus sprinkles her sweet dew
To every arrow's tip;
And Love (oh, the heart that aches!)
Colors the burning dart with resentment;
Once, to this fiery Lemnian cave,
The proud God of War has arrived;
He sprinted in from the battlefield,
His spear stained with many drops of blood!
He saw the enchanted arrows and smiled.
Mocking the young archer.
'Take this dart, and you can prove,
Even though they move faster than the breeze,
My bolts aren't that light. He grabbed the shaft—and oh! your gaze,
Sweet Venus! When he took the shot—
He sighed and felt the child's creativity; He sighed, in heartache, "It’s not gentle—I’m dying from the pain!
"Take—take your arrow back." 'No,' said the child, 'it can't be,
That little dart was made for you!'
ODE XXXV.
ODE 35.
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!
HOW I love the cheerful young man,
Dancing joyfully and carefree!
How I adore the wise old man,
Smiling through the years!
And whenever this older guy
Joins the joyful dance,
Age might be visible on his forehead,
But his heart—his heart is young!
ODE XXXVI.
ODE 36.
HE, who instructs the youthful crew
To bathe them in the brimmer's dew,
And taste, uncloy'd by rich excesses,
All the bliss that wine possesses!
He, who inspires the youth to glance
In winged circlets through the dance;
Bacchus, the god again is here,
And leads along the blushing year;
The blushing year with rapture teems,
Ready to shed those cordial streams,
Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth,
Illuminate the sons of earth,
And when the ripe and vermeil wine,
Sweet infant of the pregnant vine,
Which now in mellow clusters swells,
[Pg 186]
Oh! when it bursts its rosy cells,
The heavenly stream shall mantling flow,
To balsam every mortal woe!
No youth shall then be wan or weak,
For dimpling health shall light the cheek;
No heart shall then desponding sigh,
For wine shall bid despondence fly!
Thus—till another autumn's glow
Shall bid another vintage flow!
He teaches the young crowd
To absorb the morning's dew,
And enjoy, free from excessive indulgence,
All the happiness that wine can bring!
He inspires young people to dance.
In swirling circles on the dance floor;
Bacchus, the god, has returned again,
And leads in the flourishing year;
The blossoming year is full of joy,
Ready to share those happy moments,
Which, sparkling in the cheerful cup,
Brighten everyone's lives,
And when the ripe and rosy wine,
Sweet child of the bountiful vine,
Which now grows in lush clusters,
[Pg 186]
Oh! when it breaks open its pink shells,
The heavenly stream will flow freely,
To soothe every earthly pain!
No young person should be pale or weak,
For a healthy glow will brighten the face;
No heart will then sigh in despair,
For wine will chase away the sadness!
So—until another autumn's warmth
Calls for another harvest!
ODE XXXVII.
ODE 37.
AND whose immortal hand could shed
Upon this disk the ocean's bed?
And, in a frenzied flight of soul
Sublime as heaven's eternal pole,
Imagine thus, in semblance warm,
The Queen of Love's voluptuous form
Floating along the silvery sea
In beauty's naked majesty!
Oh! he has given the raptured sight
A witching banquet of delight;
And all those sacred scenes of love,
Where only hallow'd eyes may rove,
Lie, faintly glowing, half conceal'd,
Within the lucid billows veil'd.
Light as the leaf, that summer's breeze
Has wafted o'er the glassy seas,
She floats upon the ocean's breast,
Which undulates in sleepy rest,
[Pg 190]
And stealing on, she gently pillows
Her bosom on the amorous billows.
Her bosom, like the humid rose,
Her neck, like dewy-sparkling snows,
Illume the liquid path she traces,
And burn within the stream's embraces!
In languid luxury soft she glides,
Encircled by the azure tides,
Like some fair lily, faint with weeping,
Upon a bed of violets sleeping!
Beneath their queen's inspiring glance,
The dolphins o'er the green sea dance,
Bearing in triumph young Desire,
And baby Love with smiles of fire!
While, sparkling on the silver waves,
The tenants of the briny caves
Around the pomp in eddies play,
And gleam along the watery way.
And whose immortal hand could shed
Light on this disk, the ocean's floor?
And, in a wild rush of emotion
Sublime as heaven's eternal axis,
Picture, then, in warm likeness,
The Queen of Love's alluring presence
Drifting on the silver sea
In beauty's pure glory!
Oh! She has given a thrilling view.
A captivating feast of joy;
And all those holy moments of love,
Where only sacred eyes may wander,
Lie, softly glowing, partly hidden,
In the clear waves shown.
Light as a leaf in a summer breeze
Has drifted over calm seas,
She floats on the surface of the ocean,
Which sways in quiet calm,
[Pg 190]
As she moves, she lightly rests
Her chest on the affectionate peaks.
Her chest, like the dewy rose,
Her neck, like glistening, sparkling snow,
Lights up the liquid path she travels,
And burns within the flow's embrace!
In soft luxury, she moves gracefully,
Surrounded by the blue waves,
Like a beautiful lily, weighed down with tears,
Sleeping on a bed of violets!
Under their queen's inspiring gaze,
The dolphins leap through the green sea,
Bringing in triumph young Desire,
And baby Love with fiery smiles!
While shining on the silver waves,
The beings of the salty caves
Around the beauty, in playful swirls,
And sparkle along the watery path.
ODE XXXVIII.
ODE 38.
WHILE we invoke the wreathed spring,
Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;
Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers,
Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers;
Whose virgin blush of chasten'd dye,
Enchants so much our mortal eye.
When pleasure's bloomy season glows,
The Graces love to twine the rose;
The rose is warm Dione's bliss,
And flushes like Dione's kiss!
Oft has the poet's magic tongue
The rose's fair luxuriance sung;
And long the Muses, heavenly maids,
Have rear'd it in their tuneful shades.
When, at the early glance of morn,
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,
'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence,
To cull the timid flowret thence,
And wipe with tender hand away
The tear that on its blushes lay!
'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,
Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,
[Pg 194]
And fresh inhale the spicy sighs
That from the weeping buds arise.
When revel reigns, when mirth is high,
And Bacchus beams in every eye,
Our rosy fillets scent exhale,
And fill with balm the fainting gale!
Oh! there is nought in nature bright,
Where roses do not shed their light!
When morning paints the orient skies,
Her fingers burn with roseate dyes;
The nymphs display the rose's charms,
It mantles o'er their graceful arms;
Through Cytherea's form it glows,
And mingles with the living snows.
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! whence could such a plant have sprung?
Attend—for thus the tale is sung.
As we welcome the decorated spring,
Bright rose! We'll sing to you;
Bright rose, the flower of all flowers,
Whose fragrance fills the gardens of Olympus;
Whose innocent blush of soft color,
Captivates our human gaze so genuinely.
When the joyful season shines brightly,
The Graces love to weave the rose tightly;
The rose represents the warm happiness of Dione,
And blushes like Dionne's kiss!
Often the poet's enchanting words
Have sung about the beautiful blooms of the rose;
For a long time, the Muses, divine women,
Have cultivated it in their harmonious shadows.
When the first light of dawn,
It lies on the glimmering thorn,
It's sweet to face the tangled vine,
To pick the shy little flower from there,
And gently wipe away
The tear resting on its blush!
It's nice to hold the newborn stems,
Still dripping with morning dew,
And inhale the spicy sighs
That rises from the weeping buds.
When the party's in full swing and laughter is loud,
And Bacchus sparkles in every eye,
Our beautiful garlands give off their fragrance,
And fill the air with a calming balm!
Oh! There's nothing in nature as bright,
Where roses don't share their light!
When morning paints the eastern skies,
Her fingers shine with soft pink tones;
The nymphs display the beauty of the rose,
It hangs elegantly over their graceful arms;
Through Cytherea’s form it glows,
And merges with the living snow.
The rose provides a soothing remedy,
Soothing the pulse of pain;
It keeps the cold, buried clay,
And makes fun of the signs of decay:
And when, finally, in weak decline,
Its vibrant beauty fades and fluctuates,
Sweet like in youth, its fragrant breath
It still spreads its scent even in death!
Oh! Where could such a plant have come from?
Listen—this is how the story goes.
Radiating beauty's warmest glow,
Venus appeared in bright colors,
Calmed by the ocean's salty mist; When, in the starry skies above,
The powerful brain of Jupiter, the god of the sky, Revealed the nymph with blue eyes,
The nymph who wields the battle spear!
Then, in a strange, eventful moment, The earth brought forth a young flower,
Which sprang up, dressed in blushing colors, And wandered freely over its parent’s chest.
The gods witnessed this magnificent birth,
And praised the Rose, the gift of the earth!
With drops of nectar, a ruby wave,
The sweetly blooming buds they dyed,
And encouraged them to bloom, the divine flowers. Of the one who pours out the abundant vine; And asked them on the decorated thorn Open their chests to the morning.
ODE XXXIX.
ODE 39.
WHEN I behold the festive train
Of dancing youth, I'm young again!
Memory wakes her magic trance,
And wings me lightly through the dance.
Come, Cybeba, smiling maid!
Cull the flower and twine the braid;
Bid the blush of summer's rose
Burn upon my brow of snows;
And let me, while the wild and young
Trip the mazy dance along,
Fling my heap of years away,
And be as wild, as young as they.
When I see the happy group
I feel young again with the energy of dancing youth!
Memories cast their magic spell,
And lift me gently through the dance.
Come, Cybeba, happy girl!
Pick the flower and braid the hair;
Let the blush of summer's rose
Glow on my snowy brow;
And let me, while the wild and young
Dance through the chaotic beat,
Let go of my years,
And be just as wild and young as they are.
Give me a full bowl on my lips; Oh! You'll see this wise old sage
Forget his hair, forget his age.
He can still sing the holiday song,
He can still kiss the edge of the goblet; He can still act like a chill partygoer, And act foolishly as charming as always!
ODE XL.
Ode 40.
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;
We see the name of the flying horse.
On his side in fiery marks;
And just by their turbans,
The warriors from the East are acknowledged.
But in the lover's intense gaze,
The way to his heart lies;
Where love has dropped its burning spark!
ODE XLI.
ODE 41.
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;
WHEN Spring decorates the fresh landscape,
How nice it is to walk on the soft green,
And listen to the soft, lazy sighs of the gentle breeze,
As it moves across the fragrant meadow!
How nice to see the blushing vine,
On the verge of spilling tears of wine;
Oh! Isn't this incredibly sweet?
ODE XLII.
ODE 42.
I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure;
'Twas in a vision of the night.
He beam'd upon my wond'ring sight;
I heard his voice, and warmly prest
The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery dye,
But beauty sparkled in his eye;
Sparkled in his eyes of fire,
Through the mist of soft desire.
His lip exhaled, whene'er he sigh'd,
The fragrance of the racy tide;
And, as with weak and reeling feet,
He came my coral kiss to meet,
I saw the smiling singer of joy,
The singer of the Teian style;
It happened in a nighttime vision.
He smiled at my curious gaze;
I heard his voice and gently pressed
The beloved enthusiast in my heart.
His hair had a silver tone,
But beauty shone in his eyes;
It shone in his intense eyes,
Through the haze of gentle longing.
Whenever he sighed, his lips released a breath,
The scent of the deep sea;
And, like weak and unsteady feet,
He came to meet my coral kiss,
Led him gently by the hand.
He quickly took from his shining brows His braid, with many playful colors, I grabbed the messy piece of string,
It smelled like him and was tinted with wine!
I placed it over my careless forehead, And wow! I can feel its magic now!
I feel that even his garland's touch Can make the heart love too much!
ODE XLIII.
ODE 43.
GIVE me the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrill'd along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal right
I'm monarch of the board to-night;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I!
And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm, enchanting balm infuse
Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
Give me the harp of epic song,
That Homer's fingers once moved gracefully along;
But tear off the damn string,
Because war isn’t the song I sing.
Declare the rules for this festive night,
I'm the king of the table tonight;
And everyone around will raise their cups high,
And drink as deeply as I do!
And when the grapes are wet with dew,
Their warm, magical essence will shine through;
Our feet will discover that energetic rhythm,
And we’ll dance and move to the rhythm’s intensity.
In wild but sweet intoxication!
And share those bursts of inspiration,
As Bacchus could have taught us all!
Then give the harp of epic song,
Which of Homer's fingers thrilled along; But pull away the optimistic thread,
For war is not the topic I sing about!
ODE XLIV.
ODE 44.
LISTEN to the Muse's lyre,
Master of the pencil's fire!
Sketch'd in painting's bold display,
Many a city first pourtray;
Many a city revelling free,
Warm with loose festivity.
Picture then a rosy train,
Bacchants straying o'er the plain;
Piping, as they roam along,
Roundelay or shepherd-song.
Listen to the Muse's tunes,
Master of the pencil's flame!
Shown in painting's bold display,
Many cities first depicted;
Many cities celebrating freedom,
Full of vibrant celebration.
Imagine a happy crowd,
Partygoers wandering through the field;
Listening to music on the go,
Singing rounds or shepherd songs.
All the joyful bliss of love,
These chosen by Cupid show.
ODE XLV.
ODE 45.
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.
While I was recently strolling through the decorated gardens,
To gather a bouquet of morning flowers,
Where many early roses were hanging down,
I found the little Cupid sound asleep.
I took the boy and a cup filled with wine.
Was beautifully sparkling next to me,
I grabbed him by his gentle wing,
And dipped him in the refreshing spring.
And love now rests in my soul!
Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid's home,
I can feel him moving in my chest.
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Transcriber's Notes
In Ode III, beginning of last line on page 26, the word 'The' is mostly illegible and has been added by comparison with another version of the text.
In Ode III, starting at the last line on page 26, the word 'The' is mostly unreadable and has been included by comparing it with another version of the text.
In Ode III, after the phrase 'my blissful visions fly?', the missing punctuation mark ' has been added.
In Ode III, after the phrase 'my blissful visions fly?', the missing punctuation mark ' has been added.
In Ode VII, after 'rapid race', period has been replaced with comma.
In Ode VII, after 'rapid race', the period has been replaced with a comma.
In Ode X, after the phrase 'who murder sleep!' The single quotation mark ' has been deleted.
In Ode X, after the phrase 'who murder sleep!' the single quotation mark ' has been removed.
In Ode XXIII, after the phrase 'wish for liberty', the missing punctuation marks ?' have been added.
In Ode XXIII, after the phrase 'wish for liberty', the missing punctuation marks ?' have been added.
There are three words with the [oe] ligature. This is normalised to 'oe' in the text file; in the HTML file the ligature has been retained.
There are three words with the "oe" ligature. This is normalized to 'oe' in the text file; in the HTML file, the ligature has been kept.
There is one word with the 'ae' ligature; this has been retained in both versions.
There is one word with the 'ae' ligature; this has been kept in both versions.
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