THE Women tell me every day
That all my bloom has past away
"Behold," the pretty wanton's cry,
"Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks u on thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they're withering too!""
Whether decline has thinn'd my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give.
I CARE not for the idle state
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great:
I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the treasur'd gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy wreath,
Its freshness o'er my brow to breathe;
Be mine the rich perfumes that flow,
To cool and scent my locks of snow.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er would shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then-
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimm'd their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
With mantling cup and cordial smile;
And shed from each new bowl of wine
The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine.
For death may come, with brow unpleasan.
May come, when least we wish him present,
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us-drink no inore!
PRAY thee, by the gods above, Give me the mighty bowl I love, And let me sing, in wild delight, "I will-I will be mad to-night!" Alemæon once, as legends tell, Was frenzied by the fiends of hell; Orestes too, with naked tread, Frantic pac'd the mountain-head; And why? a murder'd mother's shade Haunted them still where'er they strayed. 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, Imbru'd 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 armour 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!"
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 e'er my mind,
Picturing her I worship, kind,
Just when I was nearly blest,
Loud thy matins broke my rest!
"TELL me, gentle youth, I pray thee,
What in purchase shall I pay thee
For this little waxen toy,
Image of the Paphiar, boy?"
Thus I said, the other day,
To a youth who pass'd my way:
"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.
THEY tell how Atys, wild with love,
Roams the mount and haunted grove;
Cybele's name he howl's 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 odours 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!
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 repel''d the tender lure,
And hope 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;
Assum'd the corslet, shield, and spear,
And, like Pelides, smil'd 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 fled-
When, heaving an indignant sigh,
To see me thus unwounded fly,
And, having now no other dart,
He shot himself into my heart!
My heart-alas the luckless day!
Receiv'd the god, and died away.
Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield
Thy lord at length is forc'd to yield.
Vain, vain, is every outward care,
The foe's within, and triumphs there.
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 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 fam'd 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;
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 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 remov'd,
All are loving-all are lov'd!
TELL me, why, my sweetest nove,
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,
(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
Ruffing 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.
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 playing,
Silky locks, like tendrils straying,
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
Its 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,
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!
AND now with all thy pencil's truth
Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth!
Let his hair, in masses bright,
Fall like floating rays of light;
And there the raven's die confuse
With the golden sunbeam's hues.
Let no wreath, with artful twine,
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 unfola
Mix in his eyes the power a ike,
With love to win, with awe to strike
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!
Now om the sunny apple seek
The velvet down that spreads his cheek;
And there, if art so far can go,
Th' ingenuous blush of boyhood show.
While, for his mouth-but no,-in vain
Would worlds its witching charm explain.
Make it the very seat, the throne,
That Eloquence would claim her own;
And let the lips, though silent, wear
A life-look, as if words were there.
Next thou his ivory neck must trace, Moulded with soft but manly grace; Fair as the neck of Paphia's boy, Where Paphia's arms have hung in joy. Give him the winged Hermes' hand, With which he waves his snaky wand; 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 enamour'd touch would show The shoulder, fair as sunless snow, Which now in veiling shadow lies, Remov'd from all but Fancy's eyes. Now, for his feet-but hold-forbearI see the sun-god's portrait there; Why paint Pathyllus? 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; Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be, Bathyllus then, the deity!
Now the star of dav 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 to you, my burning heart,
What can now relief impart ?
Can brimming bowl, or flowret's dew, Cool the flame that scorches you?
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;
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.
ONE day the Muses twir'd 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;
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 liber♥·
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.
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 ev❜n 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-
Ev'n to be trod by them were sweet!
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 for mer 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 alons
Indignant at the feeble lay,
I tore the panting chords away.
Attun'd 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 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!
To all that breathe the air of heaven,
Some boon of strength has Nature given.
In forming the majestic bull,
She fenced with wreathed horns his skull;
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 plum'd 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!
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!
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 iies;
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 chanc'd 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 smil'd
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 lov'd again!
Affection now has fled from earth,
For fire of genius, noble birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile
From beauty's cheek one favouring 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 mocking dream of night
I 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 dissolv'd each passing vow,
And ne'er was caught by love till now!
ARM'D with hyacinthine rod,
(Arms enough for such a god,)
Cupid hade te 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;
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;
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-
Drest 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.
Ther wherefore waste the rose's bloom
Upon the cold, insensate tomb?
Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,
Affect the still, cold sense of death?
Oh no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
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!
iWAS 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 wak'd me with a piteous prayer, To shield him from the midnight air. "And who art thou," I waking cry, "That bid'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 Ulumes 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 op'd 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 old His li tle fingers thrilling colc.
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 mil'd,) "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; "Fare thee well, for now I know The rain has not relax'd my bow; It still can send a thrilling dart, As thou shalt own with all thy heart!"
Oн 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,
That happiest kings may envy thee.
Whatever decks the velvet feld,
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 us 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 hear,
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,
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!
CUPID once upon bed
Of roses laid his weary head;
Luckless urchin, not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering bee,
The bee awak'd-with anger wild
The bee awak'd, and stung the child
Loud and piteous are his cries;
To Venus quick he runs, he flies;
"Oh mother!-I am wounded through-
I die with pain-in sooth I do!
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