Alemæon once, as legends tell,
Was frenzied by the fiends of hell;
Orestes too, with naked tread,
Frantic paced the mountain-head;
And why? a murder'd mother's shade
Haunted them still where'er they stray'd.
But ne'er could I a murderer be,
The grape alone shall bleed by me;
Yet can I shout, with wild delight,
“I will-I will be mad to-night."

Alcides' self, in days of yore, Imbrued his hands in youthful gore, And brandish'd, with a maniac joy, The quiver of th' expiring boy: And Ajax, with tremendous shield, Infuriate scour'd the guiltless field. But I, whose hands no weapon ask, No armor but this joyous flask; The trophy of whose frantic hours Is but a scatter'd wreath of flowers, Ev'n I can sing with wild delight, "I will-I will be mad to-night!"

"Sir," (he answer'd, and the while Answer'd all in Doric style,)

"Take it, for a trifle take it; ""Twas not I who dared to make it; "No, believe me, 'twas not I; "Oh, it has 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!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine, Warm me with that torch of thine; Make me feel as I have felt, Or thy waxen frame shall melt: I must burn with warm desire, Or thou, my boy-in yonder fire.

ODE X.

26

How am I to punish thee,
For the wrong thou'st done to me,
Silly swallow, prating thing-
Shall I clip that wheeling wing?
Or, as Tereus did, of old,"
(So the fabled tale is told,)
Shall I tear that tongue away,
Tongue that utter'd such a lay?

Ah, how thoughtless hast thou been!
Long before the dawn was seen,
When a dream came o'er my mind,
Picturing her I worship, kind,
Just when I was nearly blest,
Loud thy matins broke my

rest!

ODE XIL

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' hallow'd spring,
The votaries of the laurell'd 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 floating odors round me swim,
While mantling bowls 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 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 pass'd my way:

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 resign'd:

And so repell'd the tender lure,

And hoped my heart would 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, Or meet him on the martial field. And what did I unthinking do? I took to arms, undaunted, too;29 Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear, And, like Pelides, smiled at fear. Then (hear it, all ye powers above!) I fought with Love! I fought with Love! And now his arrows all were shed, And I had just in terror fledWhen, heaving an indignant sigh, To see me thus unwounded fly, And, having now no other dart, He shot himself into my heart!3o 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, The foe's within, and triumphs there.

ODE XIV."1

COUNT me, on the summer trees,
Every leaf that courts the breeze;3
Count me on the foamy deep,
Every wave that sinks to sleep;
Then, when you have number'd 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 famed Corinthian grove,
Where such countless wantons rove,
Chains of beauties may be found,
Chains, by which my heart is bound;
There, indeed, are nymphs divine,
Dangerous to a soul like mine."
Many bloom in Lesbos' isle;
Many in Ionia smile;

33

Rhodes a pretty swarm can boast;
Caria too contains a host.
Sum them all-of brown and fair
You may count two thousand there.
What, you stare? I pray you, peace!
More I'll find before 1 cease.

Have I told you all my flames, 'Mong the amorous Syrian dames? Have I number'd 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,
All are loving-all are loved!

ODE XV.

TELL me, why, my sweetest dove,35 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;-
She, whose eye has madden'd many,
But the poet more than any.
Venus, for a hymn of love,
Warbled in her votive grove,36
('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 rugged haunts like 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, when I have wanton'd round
To his lyre's beguiling sound;
Or with gently-moving wings
Fann'd the minstrel while he sings:
On his harp I sink in slumbers,
Dreaming still of dulcet numbers!

This is all-away-away— You have made me waste the day. How I've chatter'd! prating crow Never yet did chatter so.

Mould her neck with grace descending,
In a heaven of beauty ending;
While countless charms, above, below,
Sport and flutter round its snow.
Now let a floating, lucid veil,
Shadow her form, but not conceal ;
A charm may peep, a hue may beam,
And leave the rest to Fancy's dream.
Enough 'tis she! 'tis all I seek;
It glows, it lives, it soon will speak!

ODE XVI.37

THOU, whose soft and rosy hues
Mimic form and soul infuse,38
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 playing,
Silky locks, like tendrils straying;40
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 smoothly rise
In jetty arches o'er her eyes,
Each, a crescent gently gliding,
Just commingling, just dividing.

But, hast thou any sparkles warm, The lightning of her eyes to form? Let them effuse the azure rays That in Minerva's glances blaze, Mix'd with the liquid light that lies In Cytherea's languid eyes." O'er her nose and cheek be shed Flushing white and soften'd red; Mingling tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose. Then her lip, so rich in blisses, Sweet petitioner for kisses," Rosy nest, where lurks Persuasion, Mutely courting Love's invasion. Next, beneath the velvet chin, Whose dimple hides a Love within,"

43

ODE XVII."7

AND now with all thy pencil's truth,
Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth!
Let his hair, in masses bright,
Fall like floating rays of light;18
And there the raven's dye confuse
With the golden sunbeam's hues.
Let no wreath, with artful twine,19
The flowing of his locks confine;
But leave them loose to every breeze,
To take what shape and course they please.
Beneath the forehead, fair as snow,
But flush'd with manhood's early glow,
And guileless as the dews of dawn,
Let the majestic brows be drawn,
Of ebon hue, enrich'd by gold,
Such as dark, shining snakes unfold.
Mix in his eyes the power alike,
With love to win, with awe to strike;50
Borrow from Mars his look of ire,
From Venus her soft glance of fire;
Blend them in such expression here,
That we by turns may hope and fear!

Let Bacchus the broad chest supply,
And Leda's sons the sinewy thigh;
While, through his whole transparent frame,
Thou show'st the stirrings of that flame,
Which kindles, when the first love-sigh
Steals from the heart, unconscious why.

But sure thy pencil, though so bright, Is envious of the eye's delight, Or its enamor'd touch would show The shoulder, fair as sunless snow, Which now in veiling shadow lies, Removed from all but Fancy's eyes. Now, for his feet-but hold-forbearI see the sun-god's portrait there ;** Why paint Bathyllus? when, in truth, There, in that god, thou'st sketch'd the youth. Enough-let this bright form be mine, And send the boy to Samos' shrine; Phœbus shall then Bathyllus be, Bathyllus then, the deity!

.54

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

ODE XX.6°

ONE day the muses twined the hands
Of infant Love with flow'ry bands;
And to celestial Beauty gave

The captive infant for her slave.
His mother comes, with many a toy,
To ransom her beloved boy ;o1

His mother sues, but all in vain,-
He ne'er will leave his chains again.
Even should they take his chains away,

The little captive still would stay.

"If this," he cries, "a bondage be

"Oh, who could wish for liberty?”

ODE XXI.62

OBSERVE when mother earth is dry,
She drinks the droppings of the sky,
And then the dewy cordial gives
To ev'ry thirsty plant that lives.
The vapors, 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.

ODE XIX.59

HERE recline you, gentle maid," Sweet is this embowering shade; Sweet the young, the modest trees, Ruffled by the kissing breeze; Sweet the little founts that weep, Lulling soft the mind to sleep;

ODE XXII.

THE Phrygian rock, that braves the storm,
Was once a weeping matron's form;"
And Progue, hapless, frantic maid,
Is now a swallow in the shade.
Oh! that a mirror's form were mine,
That I might catch that smile divine;

And like my own fond fancy be,
Reflecting thee, and only thee;
Or could I be the robe which holds
That graceful form within its folds;
Or, turn'd into a fountain, lave
Thy beauties in my circling wave,
Would I were perfume for thy hair,
To breathe my soul in fragrance there;
Or, better still, the zone, that lies
Close to thy breast, and feels its sighs!
Or e'en 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, any thing that touches thee;
Nay sandals for those airy feet-
C'en to be trod by them were sweet!65

A hoof of strength she lent the steed,
And wing'd the timorous hare with speed.
She gave the lion fangs of terror,
And, o'er 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, in that proud hour, The boon of intellectual power. Then, what, oh woman, what, for thee, Was left in Nature's treasury? She gave thee beauty-mightier far Than all the pomp and power of war. Nor steel, nor fire itself hath power Like woman in her conquering hour. Be thou but fair, mankind adore thee, Smile, and a world is weak before thee !"

ODE XXIII.

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;
'n 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 mad'st me follow Glory's theme;
For thou my lyre, and thou my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And all that one has felt so well
The other shall as sweetly tell!

ODE XXV.

ONCE in each revolving year,
Gentle bird! we find thee here.
When Nature wears her summer-vest,
Thou com'st to weave thy simple nest.
But when the chilling winter lowers,
Again thou seek'st the genial bowers
Of Memphis, or the shores of Nile,
Where sunny hours for ever smile.
And thus thy pinion rests and roves,-
Alas! unlike the swarm of Loves,
That brood within this hapless breast,
And never, never change their nest!"
Still every year, and all the year,
They fix their fated dwelling here;
And some their infant plumage try,
And on a tender winglet fly;
While in the shell, impregn'd with fires,
Still lurk a thousand more desires;
Some from their tiny prisons peeping,
And some in formless embryo sleeping.
Thus peopled, like the vernal groves,
My breast resounds with warbling Loves;
One urchin imps the other's feather,
Then twin-desires they wing together,
And fast as they thus take their flight,
Still other urchins spring to light.
But is there then no kindly art,
To chase these Cupids from my heart?
Ah, no! I fear, in sadness fear,
They will for ever nestle here!