LOVE THE CONQUEROR

ODE XIV.

I yield, I yield, O mighty Love!

'Twas Love of late his suit did move;

But I, improvident of mind.

Was to his soft persuasion blind.

Indignant, then, Love took his bow,
And well-stocked golden quiver, too,
And called me out with him to fight:
Now I, disdaining shameful flight,
In brilliant panoply appear,

And as Achilles shake my spear,
And grasp my shield, intent to prove

The battle with the god of Love!

Dart after dart the godhead threw,

From which with caution I withdrew :

Now when his fruitless darts were spent,

Το anger he and threats gave vent;

Then suddenly, as if a dart,
Transfixed himself into my heart:
The battle there he urged outright.
Ah, me! and put my soul to flight.

In vain, then, do I hold the shield,
O, mighty Love! I yield! I yield!
For why defend the outer wall,

When th' war is in the citadol?

It would seem from this delightful little piece that Anacreon was aware of the irresistible power of Love, and of the uselessness of resistance to his sway. The invention of it is very fine, and nothing can be more entertaining to the imagination, than the equipment, the combat, and the issue, and that natural and admirable reflection with which it concludes. However, that sarcastic and sore critic, M. de Pauw, as usual, finds no merit in the ode.

Now I, disdaining shameful flight,

In brilliant panoply appear.

Longepierre quotes in this place from the Anthology, an epigram in which the poet assumes reason as his armour against the god of Love.

With reason armed, as with a shield,

I challenge Cupid to the field :

Nor shall I be, while one to one,

By th' immortal overthrown :

But should great Bacchus, his ally,

To join him in the warfare fly

How can one mortal then withstand

Two mighty Gods thus hand in hand.

Now when his fruitless darts were spent, &.

Refer to the Anthol. Græc. (lib. vii p. 457.)

Let none afraid of Cupid's arrows be;

The god has spent his quiver all on me.

And our Dryden has an extravagant parody on this subject. -I'm all o'er love,

Nay, I am love-love shot, and shot so fast,

He shot himself into my heart at last.

ON HIMSELF.

ODE XV.

I care not for the wealthy state,
The pageants of the high and great;
I care not for the heaps of gold
By Gyges, Sardia's monarch, told!

E

I will stretched beneath some bower,
On my beard fresh unguents shower;
I will round my youthful head
Rosy garlands gaily spread.

For to-day alone is mine-
Who the morrow can divine?

Then while yet the day is high,
Let us drink and toss the die;
And ever in the genial hour
Libations to Lyceus pour;

For sickness every hour annoys,

And soon may dash our boasted joys!

Horace has partly imitated this ode (lib. i od. 31); and Archilochus in a fragment preserved by Plutarch in his treatise De Tranquilitate Animi. See also, Alpheus (Antholog. p. 25, epig. 2) and Greg. Nazian. od. 2.

For to-day alone is mine—

Who the morrow can divine?

An epigram in the Anthologia teaches a similar doctrine; thus translated

None know the morrow: drink and sweetly smile,

Give fate thy cares and cease thy anxious toil :

Indulge thy taste, the present hour enjoy ;

Remember to be born is but to die.

He only lives who lives to pleasure free;

Thy treasured heaps will soon another's be.

Horace has also many parallels

Quid sit futurum cras, fuge quærere: et
Quem sors dierum cunque dabit, lucro

Appone; nec dulces amores

Sperne, puer, neque tu choreas,

Donec virenti canities abest

Morosa-lib. i., od. 9.

Again

Quis scit, an adjiciant hodiernæ crastina summæ

Tempora Dii superi ?—lib. iv., od. 7.

And again

:

-Dum loquimur, fugerit invida

Etas carpe diem quam minimum credula postero.-lib i., od. 11.