The Odes of Anacreon Part 7

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.

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When, humid, from the silvery stream, Effusing beauty's warmest beam, Venus appear'd, in flus.h.i.+ng hues, Mellow'd by ocean's briny dews; When, in the starry courts above, The pregnant brain of mighty Jove Disclosed the nymph of azure glance, The nymph who shakes the martial lance!

Then, then, in strange eventful hour, The earth produced an infant flower, Which sprung, with blus.h.i.+ng tinctures drest, And wanton'd o'er its parent breast.

The G.o.ds beheld this brilliant birth, And hail'd the Rose, the boon of earth!

With nectar drops, a ruby tide, The sweetly orient buds they dyed, And bade them bloom, the flowers divine Of him who sheds the teeming vine; And bade them on the spangled thorn Expand their bosoms to the morn.

_ODE x.x.xIX._

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.

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Hither haste, some cordial soul!

Give my lips the br.i.m.m.i.n.g bowl; Oh! you will see this h.o.a.ry sage Forget his locks, forget his age.

He still can chant the festive hymn, He still can kiss the goblet's brim; He still can act the mellow raver, And play the fool as sweet as ever!

_ODE XL._

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;

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Thro' them we see the small faint mark, Where Love has dropt his burning spark!

_ODE XLI._

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;

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And with the maid, whose every sigh Is love and bliss, entranced to lie Where the imbowering branches meet-- Oh! is not this divinely sweet?

_ODE XLII._

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,

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An infant, of the Cyprian band, Guided him on with tender hand.

Quick from his glowing brows he drew His braid, of many a wanton hue, I took the braid of wanton twine, It breathed of him and blush'd with wine!

I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow, And ah! I feel its magic now!

I feel that e'en his garland's touch Can make the bosom love too much!

_ODE XLIII._

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 cl.u.s.ter's mellowing dews Their warm, enchanting balm infuse Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound, And reel us through the dance's round.

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Oh, Bacchus! we shall sing to thee, In wild but sweet ebriety!

And flash around such sparks of thought, As Bacchus could alone have taught!

Then give 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!

_ODE XLIV._

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.

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