Was frenzied by the fiends of hell; Orestes, too, with naked tread, Frantic paced the mountain head; And why? a murdered mother's shade Before their conscious fancy played. But I can ne'er a murderer be, The grape alone shall bleed by me; Yet can I rave in wild delight, "I will-I will be mad to-night!" The son of Jove, in days of yore, Imbrued his hands in youthful gore, And brandished, with a maniac joy, The quiver of the expiring boy: And Ajax, with tremendous shield, Infuriate scoured the guiltless field. But I, whose hands no quiver hold, No weapon but this flask of gold; The trophy of whose frantic hours Is but a scattered wreath of flowers; Yet, yet can sing with wild delight, "I will-I will be mad to-night!"

ODE X.

TELL me how to punish thee,
For the mischief done to me!
Silly swallow! prating thing,
Shall I clip thy wheeling wing?
Or, as Tereus did of old,
(So the fabled tale is told,)
Shall I tear that tongue away,
Tongue that uttered such a lay?
How unthinking hast thou been!
Long before the dawn was seen,
When I slumbered in a dream,
Love was the delicious theme!
Just when I was nearly blest,
Ah! thy matin broke my rest!

ODE XI.

"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 passed my way.

"Sir," (he answered, and the while

Answered 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!"
"Here, then, here," (I said with joy,)
"Here is silver for the boy:

He shall be my bosom guest,
Idol of my pious breast!"

Little Love! thou now art mine,
Warm me with that torch of thine,
Make me feel as I have felt,
Or thy waxen frame shall melt.
I must burn in warm desire,

Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire!

ODE XII.

THEY tell how Atys, wild with love,
Roams the mount and haunted grove;
Cybele's name he howls around,
The gloomy blast returns the sound!
Oft too by Claros' hallowed spring,
The votaries of the laurelled king
Quaff the inspiring, magic stream,
And rave in wild, prophetic dream.
But frenzied dreams are not for me,
Great Bacchus is my deity!

Full of mirth, and full of him,

While waves of perfume round me swim;
While flavoured bows are full supplied,
And you sit blushing by my side,
I will be mad and raving too-
Mad, my girl! with love for you!

ODE XIII.

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 resigned;

And I've repelled 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 summoned me to yield,
Or meet him on the martial field.
And what did I unthinking do?
I took to arms, undaunted too;
Assumed the corselet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.
Then (hear it, all you powers above!)
I fought with Love! I fought with Love!
And now his arrows all were shed-
And I had just in terrors fled-
When, heaving an indignant sigh,
To see me thus unwounded fly,
And having now no other dart,
He glanced himself into my heart!
My heart! alas, the luckless day!
Received the god, and died away.
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield!
Thy lord at length is forced to yield.
Vain, vain is every outward care;
My foe's within, and triumphs there.

ODE XIV.

COUNT me, on the summer trees,
Every leaf that courts the breeze;
Count me, on the foamy deep,
Every wave that sinks to sleep;
Then, when you have numbered these
Billowy tides and leafy trees,
Count me all the flames I prove,
All the gentle nymphs I love.
First, of pure Athenian maids
Sporting in their olive shades,
You may reckon just a score,
Nay, I'll grant you fifteen more.
In the sweet Corinthian grove,
Where the glowing wantons rove,
Chains of beauties may be found,
Chains, by which my heart is bound:
There indeed are girls divine,
Dangerous to a soul like mine!
Many bloom in Lesbos' isle;
Many in Ionia smile;

Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast;

Caria too contains a host.

Sum these all-of brown and fair

You may count two thousand there!

What, you gaze! I pray you, peace!

More I'll find before I cease.

Have I told you all my flames
'Mong the amorous Syrian dames?

Have I numbered every one
Glowing under Egypt's sun?

Or the nymphs who, blushing sweet,
Deck the shrine of Love in Crete;
Where the god, with festal play,
Holds eternal holiday?

Still in clusters, still remain
Gades' warm, desiring train;
Still there lies a myriad more
On the sable India's shore;
These, and many far removed,
Are all loving-all are loved!

ODE XV.

"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; With his mandate now I fly To the nymph of azure eye; Ah! that eye has maddened many, But the poet more than any! Venus, for a hymn of love Warbled in her votive grove, ('Twas in sooth a gentle lay,) Gave me to the Bard away. See me now his faithful minion; Thus with softly-gliding pinion, To his lovely girl I bear Songs of passion through the air. Oft he blandly whispers me, Soon, my bird, I'll set you free.' But in vain he'll bid me fly, I shall serve him till I die. Never could my plumes sustain Ruffling winds and chilling rain, O'er the plains, or in the dell, On the mountain's savage swell; Seeking in the desert wood Gloomy shelter, rustic food. Now I lead a life of ease, Far from such retreats as these; From Anacreon's hand I eat Food delicious, viands sweet; Flutter o'er his goblet's brim, Sip the foamy wine with him.

Then I dance and wanton round
To the lyre's beguiling sound;
Or with gently-fanning wings
Shade the minstrel while he sings:
On his harp then sink in slumbers,
Dreaming still of dulcet numbers!
This is all-away-away-
You have made me waste the day.
How I've chattered! prating crow
Never yet did chatter so."

ODE XVI.

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, Burnished 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' languid eyes respire. O'er her nose and cheek be shed Flushing white and mellowed red: Gradual tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose. Then her lip, so rich in blisses! Sweet petitioner for kisses! Pouting nest of bland persuasion, Ripely suing Love's invasion. Then beneath the velvet chin, Whose dimple shades a love within, Mould her neck with grace descending,

In a heaven of beauty ending;