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,
That drank the current of my heart;
Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,
Have made this vanquish'd bosom bleed;
No 'twas from eyes of liquid blue,
A host of quiver'd Cupids flew ;"
And now my heart all bleeding lies
Beneath that army of the eyes!
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;70
Through them we see the small faint mark
Where Love has dropp'd his burning spark!
As, by his Lemnian forge's flame;
The husband of the Paphian dame
Moulded the glowing steel, to form
Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm;
And Venus, as he plied his art,
Shed honey round each new-made dart,
While Love, at hand, to finish all,
Tipp'd every arrow's point with gall;"
It chanced the Lord of Battles came
To visit that deep cave of flame.
"Twas from the ranks of war he rush'd
His spear with many a life-drop blush'd
He saw the fiery darts, and smiled
Contemptuous at the archer-child.
"What!" said the urchin," dost thou smile?
"Here, hold this little dart awhile,
"And thou wilt find, though swift of flight, "My bolts are not so feathery light."
Mars took the shaft-and, oh, thy look, Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took!
Sighing, he felt the urchin's art, And cried, in agony of heart, "It is not light-I sink with pain! "Take-take thy arrow back again." "No," said the child, "it must not be; "That little dart was made for thee!"
YES-loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still;"
But oh, it is the worst of pain,
To love and not be loved again!
Affection now has fled from earth,
Nor fire of genius, noble birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile
From beauty's cheek one favoring smile.
Gold is the woman's only theme,
Gold is the woman's only dream.
Oh! never be that wretch forgiven—
Forgive him not, indignant heaven!
Whose grovelling eyes could first adore
Whose heart could pant for sordid ore.
Since that devoted thirst began,
Man has forgot to feel for man;
The pulse of social life is dead,
And all its fonder feelings fled!
War too has sullied Nature's charms,
For gold provokes the world to arms:
And oh the worst of all its arts,
It rends asunder loving hearts.
"Twas in a mocking dream of nightI fancied I had wings as light
As a young bird's, and flew as fleet;
While Love, around whose beauteous feet,
I knew not why, hung chains of lead,
Pursued me, as I trembling fled;
And, strange to say, as swift as thought,
Spite of my pinions, I was caught!
What does the wanton Fancy mean
By such a strange, illusive scene?
I fear she whispers to my breast,
That you, sweet maid, have stol'n its rest;
That though my fancy, for a while,
Hath hung on many a woman's smile,
I soon dissolved each passing vow,
And ne'er was caught by love till now!
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 many a torrent, wild and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep,
With weary foot I panting flew,
Till my brow dropp'd with chilly dew.
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying;75
And now I thought the spark had fled,
When Cupid hover'd o'er my head,
And fanning light his breezy pinion,
Rescued my soul from death's dominion;76
Then said, in accents half-reproving,
"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"
STREW me a fragrant bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this sweet hour of revelry
Young Love shall my attendant be-
Dress'd for the task, with tunic round
His snowy neck and shoulders bound,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!
Oh, swift as 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. Then wherefore waste the rose's bloom Upon the cold, insensate tomb? Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath, Affect the still, cold sense of death? Oh no; I ask no balm to steep With fragrant tears my bed of sleep: But now, while every pulse is glowing, Now let me breathe the balsam flowing; Now let the rose, with blush of fire, Upon my brow in sweets expire; And bring the nymph whose eye hath power To brighten even death's cold hour. Yes, Cupid! ere my shade retire,
To join the blest elysian choir,
With wine, and love, and social cheer,
I'll make my own elysium here!
"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 shield him from the midnight air.
"And who art thou," I waking cry,
"That bidd'st my blissful visions fly?"
"Ah, 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.
"Chill drops the rain, and not a ray
"Illumes the drear and misty way!"
I heard the baby's tale of woe; I heard the bitter night-winds blow; And sighing for his piteous fate, I trimm'd my lamp and oped the gate. "Twas Love! the little wand'ring sprite," His pinion sparkled through the night. I knew him by his bow and dart; I knew him by my fluttering heart. Fondly I take him in, and raise The dying embers' cheering blaze; Press from his dank and clinging hair The crystals of the freezing air, And in my hand and bosom hold His little fingers thrilling cold.
And now the embers' genial ray Had warm'd his anxious fears away; "I pray thee," said the wanton child, (My bosom trembled as he smiled,) "I pray. thee let me try my bow, "For through the rain I've wander'd so, "That much I fear, the midnight shower "Has injured its elastic power." The fatal bow the urchin drew; Swift from the string the arrow flew; As swiftly flew as glancing flame, And to my inmost spirit came! "Fare thee well," I heard him say, As laughing wild he wing'd away;
OH thou, of all creation blest,
Sweet insect, that delight'st to rest
Upon the wild wood's leafy tops,
To drink the dew that morning drops,
And chirp thy song with such a glee,89
That happiest kings may envy thee.
Whatever decks the velvet field,
Whate'er the circling seasons yield,
Whatever buds, whatever blows,
For thee it buds, for thee it grows.
Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear,
To him thy friendly notes are dear;
For thou art mild as matin dew;
And still, when summer's flowery hue
Begins to paint the bloomy plain,
We hear thy sweet prophetic strain:
Thy sweet prophetic strain we near,
And bless the notes and thee revere !
The Muses love thy shrilly tone;
Apollo calls thee all his own;
'Twas he who gave that voice to thee
"Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy.
Unworn by age's dim decline, The fadeless blooms of youth are thine. Melodious insect, child of earth,81 In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth; Exempt from every weak decay, That withers vulgar frames away : With not a drop of blood to stain The current of thy purer vein; So blest an age is pass'd by thee, Thou seem'st-a little deity!
Thus he spoke, and she the wht.e Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, "My infant, if so much "Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch, "How must the heart, ah, Cupid! be, "The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"
IF hoarded gold possess'd the power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore!
And every hour should swell my store;
That when Death came, with shadowy pinion,
To waft me to his bleak dominion,
I might, by bribes, my doom delay,
And bid him call some distant day.
But, since, not all earth's golden store
Can buy for us one bright hour more,
Why should we vainly mourn our fate,
Or sigh at life's uncertain date?
Nor wealth nor grandeur can illume
The silent midnight of the tomb.
No-give to others hoarded treasures-
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures;
The goblet rich, the board of friends,
Whose social souls the goblet blends;8
And mine, while yet I've life to live.
Those joys that love alone can give.
To gather from each rosy lip
A kiss that Jove himself might sip-
When sudden all my dream of joys,
Blushing nymphs and laughing boys,
All were gone!85" Alas!" I said,
Sighing for th' illusion fled,
"Again, sweet sleep that scene restore, "Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"
How I love the festive boy,
Tripping through 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,
Snows may o'er his head be flung,
But his heart-his heart is young.
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;
The god who taught 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
So oft has fondled in her arms.
Oh 'tis from him the transport flows,
Which sweet intoxication knows;
With him, the brow forgets its gloom,
And brilliant graces learn to bloom.
Behold!-my boys a goblet bear, Whose sparkling foam lights up the air. Where are now the tear, the sigh? To the winds they fly, they fly! Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking! Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking! Say, can the tears we lend to thought In life's account avail us aught? Can we discern with all our lore, The path we've yet to journey o'er? Alas, alas, in ways so dark, "Tas only wine can strike a spark !87 Then let me quaff the foamy tide, And through the dance meandering glide; Let me imbibe the spicy breath Of odors chafe to fragrant death; Or from the lips of love inhale
A more ambrosial, richer gale!
To hearts that court the phantom Care,
Let him retire and shroud him there;
While we exhaust the nectar'd bowl,
And swell the choral song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!
I KNOW that Heaven hath sent me here
To run this mortal life's career;
The scenes which I have journey'd o'er,
Return no more-alas! no more;
And all the path I've yet to go,
I neither know nor ask to know.
Away, then, wizard Care, nor think
Thy fetters round this soul to link;
Never can heart that feels with me
Descend to be a slave to thee!83
And oh! before the vital thrill,
Which trembles at my heart, is still,
I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers,
And gild with bliss my fading hours;
Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom,
And Venus dance me to the tomb!""
WHEN Spring adorns the dewy scene,
How sweet to walk the velvet green,
And hear the west wind's gentle sighs,
As o'er the scented mead it flies!
How sweet to mark the pouting vine,
Ready to burst in tears of wine;
And with some maid, who breathes but love,
To walk, at noontide, through the grove,
Or sit in some cool, green recess-
Oh, is not this true happiness?
YES, be the glorious revel mine, Where humor sparkles from the wine.
Around me, let the youthful choir
Respond to my enlivening lyre;
And while the red cup foams along,
Mingle in soul as well as song.
Then, while I sit, with flow'rets crown'd,
To regulate the goblet's round,
Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride,
Be seated smiling by my side,
And earth has not a gift or power
That I would envy, in that hour.
Envy!-oh never let its blight
Touch the gay hearts met here to-night.
Far hence be slander's sidelong wounds,
Nor harsh dispute, nor discord's sounds
Disturb a scene, where all should be
Attuned to peace and harmony.
Come, let us hear the harp's gay note Upon the breeze inspiring float, While round us, kindling into love, Young maidens through the light dance move. Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace, Sure such a life should never cease!
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.
Even 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, sister Graces,
The wanton winding dance he traces.
Then bring me, showers of roses bring,
And shed them o'er me while I sing,
Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine,
Wreathing my brow with rose and vine,
I lead some bright nymph through the dance,
Commingling soul with every glance.
WHILE Our rosy fillets shed
Freshness 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 raptures from its strings,
Some airy nymph, with graceful bound,
Keeps measure to the music's sound;
Waving, in her snowy hand,
The leafy Bacchanalian wand,
Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
Trembles all over to her sighs.
A youth the while, with loosen'd hair,
Floating on the listless air,
Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone,
A tale of woes, alas, his own;
And oh, the sadness in his sigh,
As o'er his lip the accents die !93
Never sure on earth has been
Half so bright, so blest a scene.
It seems as Love himself had come
To make this spot his chosen home ;-
And Venus, too, with all her wiles,
And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles,
All, all are here, to hail with me
The Genius of Festivity!"
WITHIN this goblet, rich and deep,
I cradle all my woes to sleep.
Why should we breathe the sigh of fear,
Or pour the unavailing tear?
For death will never heed the sigh,
Nor soften at the tearful eye;
And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep,
Must all alike be seal'd in sleep.
Then let us never vainly stray,
In search of thorns, from pleasure's way;
But wisely quaff the rosy wave,
Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave
And in the goblet, rich and deep,
Cradle our crying woes to sleep.
BEHOLD, the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her scented wing; While virgin Graces, warm with May Fling roses o'er her dewy way
|