Thy pencil, though divinely bright,
Is envious of the eye's delight,
Or its enamour'd touch would show
His shoulder fair as sunless snow,
Which now in veiling shadow lies,
Removed from all but fancy's eyes.
Now for his feet-but hold!-forbear!-
I see a godlike portrait there;
So like Bathyllus !-sure there's none
So like Bathyllus but the sun!
Oh! let this pictured god be mine,
And keep the boy for Samos' shrine;
Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be,
Bathyllus then the deity!
(The 21st in Barnes.)
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;
Every dewy rose I wear
Sheds its tears, and withers there.
But for you, my burning mind!
Oh! what shelter shall I find?
Can the bowl, or floweret's dew,
Cool the flame that scorches you?
Παρα την σκιην Βαθυλλου.
(The 22d in Barnes.)
HERE recline you, gentle maid,
Sweet is this imbowering shade;
Sweet the young, the modest trees,
Ruffled by the kissing breeze!
Sweet the little founts that weep,
Lulling bland the mind to sleep;
Hark! they whisper as they roll,
Calm persuasion to the soul!
Tell me, tell me, is not this
All a stilly scene of bliss?
Who, my girl, would pass it by?
Surely neither you nor I!
Αι Μουσαι τον Ερωτα.
(The 30th in Barnes.)
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,
He ne'er will leave his chains again.
Nay, should they take his chains away,
The little captive still would stay;
"If this," he cries, "a bondage be,
Who could wish for liberty?
Η γε μελαινα πινει.
(The 19th in Barnes.)
OBSERVE when mother earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky;
And then the dewy cordial gives
To every thirsty plant that lives.
The vapours which at evening weep
Are beverage to the swelling deep;
And when the rosy sun appears,
He drinks the ocean's misty tears.
The moon, too, quaffs her paly stream
Of lustre from the solar beam.
Then, hence with all your sober thinking!
Since nature's holy law is drinking,
I'll make the laws of nature mine,
And pledge the universe in wine!
Ἡ Ταταλου ποτ' εστη.
(The 20th in Barnes.)
THE Phrygian rock that braves the storm
Was once a weeping matron's form;
And Progna, 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!
I wish I were the zone that lies
Warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs!
Or like those envious pearls that show
So faintly round that neck of snow,
Yes, I would be a happy gem,
Like them to hang, to fade like them.
What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh, anything that touches thee,
Nay, sandals for those airy feet
Thus to be press'd by thee were sweet!
Θελω λεγειν Ατρείδας.
(The 1st in Barnes.)
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;
In all the glow of epic fire,
To Hercules I wake the lyre !
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
"The tale of love alone is sweet!"
Then fare thee well, seductive dream,
That madest me follow Glory's theme;
For thou my lyre, and thou my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And thou the flame shalt feel as well
As thou the flame shalt sweetly tell!
Φυσις κερατα ταυροις.
(The 2d in Barnes.)
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 wreathed 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,
She plumed the warbling world of love.
To man she gave the flame refined,
The spark of heaven-a thinking mind!
And had she no surpassing treasure
For thee, O woman! child of pleasure?
She gave thee beauty-shaft of eyes,
That every shaft of war outflies!
She gave thee beauty-blush of fire,
That bids the flames of war retire!
Woman! be fair, we must adore thee!
Smile, and a world is weak before thee!
Εν μεν φιλη χελιδων.
(The 33d in Barnes.)
ONCE in each revolving year,
Gentle bird! we find thee here.
When nature wears her summer vest,
Thou comest to weave thy simple nest;
But when the chilling winter lowers,
Again thou seekst the genial bowers
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile,
Where sunny hours of verdure smile.
And thus thy wing of freedom roves,
Alas! unlike the plumed loves
That linger in this hapless breast,
And never, never change their nest!
Still every year, and all the year,
A flight of loves engender here;
And some their infant plumage try,
And on a tender winglet fly;
While in the shell, impregn'd with fires,
Cluster a thousand more desires;
Some from their tiny prisons peeping,
And some in formless embryo sleeping.
My bosom, like the vernal groves,
Resounds with little warbling loves;
One urchin imps the other's feather,
Then twin desires they wing together.
But is there then no kindly art,
To chase these Cupids from my heart?
No, no! I fear, alas! I fear
They will for ever nestle here!
Εν μεν λεγεις τα Θηβης.
(The 16th in Barnes.)
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;
|