The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore

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[3] Horace has _Desiderique temperare poculum_, not figuratively, however,
like Anacreon, but importng the love-philtres of the witches. By "cups of
kisses" our poet may allude to a favorite gallantry among the ancients, of
drinking when the lips of their mistresses had touched the brim;--

"Or leave a kiss within the cup And I'll not ask for wine."

As In Ben Jonson's translation from Philostratus; and Lucian has a conceit
upon the same idea, "that you may at once both drink and kiss."

ODE LIX.

Ripened by the solar beam,
Now the ruddy clusters teem,
In osier baskets borne along
By all the festal vintage throng
Of rosy youths and virgins fair,
Ripe as the melting fruits they bear.
Now, now they press the pregnant grapes,
And now the captive stream escapes,
In fervid tide of nectar gushing.
And for its bondage proudly blushing
While, round the vat's impurpled brim,
The choral song, the vintage hymn
Of rosy youths and virgins fair,
Steals on the charmed and echoing air.
Mark, how they drink, with all their eyes,
The orient tide that sparkling flies,
The infant Bacchus, born in mirth,
While Love stands by, to hail the birth.

When he, whose verging years decline
As deep into the vale as mine,
When he inhales the vintage-cup,
His feet, new-winged, from earth spring up,
And as he dances, the fresh air
Plays whispering through his silvery hair.
Meanwhile young groups whom love invites,
To joys even rivalling wine's delights,
Seek, arm in arm, the shadowy grove,
And there, in words and looks of love,
Such as fond lovers look and say,
Pass the sweet moonlight hours away.

ODE LX.[1]

Awake to life, my sleeping shell,
To Phoebus let thy numbers swell;
And though no glorious prize be thine,
No Pythian wreath around thee twine,
Yet every hour is glory's hour
To him who gathers wisdom's flower.
Then wake thee from thy voiceless slumbers,
And to the soft and Phrygian numbers,
Which, tremblingly, my lips repeat,
Send echoes, from thy chord as sweet.
'Tis thus the swan, with fading notes,
Down the Cayster's current floats,
While amorous breezes linger round,
And sigh responsive sound for sound.

Muse of the Lyre! illume my dream,
Thy Phoebus is my fancy's theme;
And hallowed is the harp I bear,
And hallowed is the wreath I wear,
Hallowed by him, the god of lays,
Who modulates the choral maze.
I sing the love which Daphne twined
Around the godhead's yielding mind;
I sing the blushing Daphne's flight
From this ethereal son of Light;
And how the tender, timid maid
Flew trembling to the kindly shade.
Resigned a form, alas, too fair,
Arid grew a verdant laurel there;
Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill,
In terror seemed to tremble still!
The god pursued, with winged desire;
And when his hopes were all on fire,
And when to clasp the nymph he thought,
A lifeless tree was all he caught;
And 'stead of sighs that pleasure heaves,
Heard but the west-wind in the leaves!

But, pause, my soul, no more, no more--
Enthusiast, whither do I soar?
This sweetly-maddening dream of soul
Hath hurried me beyond the goal.
Why should I sing the mighty darts
Which fly to wound celestial hearts,
When ah, the song, with sweeter tone,
Can tell the darts that wound my own?
Still be Anacreon, still inspire
The descant of the Teian lyre:
Still let the nectared numbers float
Distilling love in every note!
And when some youth, whose glowing soul
Has felt the Paphian star's control,
When he the liquid lays shall hear,
His heart will flutter to his ear,
And drinking there of song divine,
Banquet on intellectual wine![2]

[1] This hymn to Apollo is supposed not to have been written by Anacreon;
and it is undoubtedly rather a sublimer flight than the Teian wing is
accustomed to soar. But in a poet of whose works so small a proportion has
reached us, diversity of style is by no means a safe criterion. If we knew
Horace but as a satirist, should we easily believe there could dwell such
animation in his lyre? Suidas says that our poet wrote hymns, and this
perhaps is one of them. We can perceive in what an altered and imperfect
state his works are at present, when we find a scholiast upon Horace
citing an ode from the third book of Anacreon.

[2] Here ends the last of the odes in the Vatican MS., whose authority
helps to confirm the genuine antiquity of them all, though a few have
stolen among the number, which we may hesitate in attributing to Anacreon.

ODE LXI.[1]

Youth's endearing charms are fled;
Hoary locks deform my head;
Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,
All the flowers of life decay.[2]
Withering age begins to trace
Sad memorials o'er my face;
Time has shed its sweetest bloom
All the future must be gloom.
This it is that sets me sighing;
Dreary is the thought of dying![3]
Lone and dismal is the road,
Down to Pluto's dark abode;
And, when once the journey's o'er,
Ah! we can return no more!

[1] The intrusion of this melancholy ode, among the careless levities of
our poet, reminds us of the skeletons which the Egyptians used to hang up
in the banquet-rooms, to inculcate a thought of mortality even amidst the
dissipations of mirth. If it were not for the beauty of its numbers, the
Teian Muse should disown this ode.

[2] Horace often, with feeling and elegance, deplores the fugacity of
human enjoyments.

[3] Regnier, a libertine French poet, has written some sonnets on the
approach of death, full of gloomy and trembling repentance. Chaulieu,
however, supports more consistently the spirit of the Epicurean
philosopher. See his poem, addressed to the Marquis de Lafare.

ODE LXII.[1]

Fill me, boy, as deep a draught,
As e'er was filled, as e'er was quaffed;
But let the water amply flow,
To cool the grape's intemperate glow;[2]
Let not the fiery god be single,
But with the nymphs in union mingle.
For though the bowl's the grave of sadness,
Ne'er let it be the birth of madness.
No, banish from our board tonight
The revelries of rude delight;
To Scythians leave these wild excesses,
Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses!
And while the temperate bowl we wreathe,
In concert let our voices breathe,
Beguiling every hour along
With harmony of soul and song.

[1] This ode consists of two fragments, which are to be found in
Athenaeus, book x., and which Barnes, from the similarity of their
tendency, has combined into one. I think this a very justifiable liberty,
and have adopted it in some other fragments of our poet.

[2] It was Amphictyon who first taught the Greeks to mix water with their
wine; in commemoration of which circumstance they erected altars to
Bacchus and the nymphs.

ODE LXIII.[1]

To Love, the soft and blooming child,
I touch the harp in descant wild;
To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers,
The boy, who breathes and blushes flowers;
To Love, for heaven and earth adore him,
And gods and mortals bow before him!

[1] "This fragment is preserved in Clemens Alexandrinus, Storm, lib. vi.
and In Arsenius, Collect. Graec."--BARNES.

It appears to have been the opening of a hymn in praise of Love.

ODE LXIV.[1]

Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aimed spear
Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer!
Dian, Jove's immortal child,
Huntress of the savage wild!
Goddess with the sun-bright hair!
Listen to a people's prayer.
Turn, to Lethe's river turn,
There thy vanquished people mourn![2]
Come to Lethe's wavy shore,
Tell them they shall mourn no more.
Thine their hearts, their altars thine;
Must they, Dian--must they pine?

[1] This hymn to Diana is extant in Hephaestion. There is an anecdote of
our poet, which has led some to doubt whether he ever wrote any odes of
this kind. It is related by the Scholiast upon Pindar (Isthmionic. od. ii.
v. 1. as cited by Barnes) that Anaecreon being asked why he addressed all
his hymns to women, and none to the deities? answered, "Because women are
my deities."

I have assumed, it will be seen, in reporting this anecdote, the same
liberty which I have thought it right to take in translating some of the
odes; and it were to be wished that these little infidelities were always
allowable in interpreting the writings of the ancients.

[2] Lethe, a river of Iona, according to Strabo, falling into the Meander.
In its neighborhood was the city called Magnesia, in favor of whose
inhabitants our poet is supposed to have addressed this supplication to
Diana. It was written (as Madame Dacier conjectures) on the occasion of
some battle, in which the Magnesians had been defeated.

ODE LXV.[1]

Like some wanton filly sporting,
Maid Of Thrace, thou flyest my courting.
Wanton filly! tell me why
Thou trip'st away, with scornful eye,
And seem'st to think my doating heart
Is novice in the bridling art?
Believe me, girl, it is not so;
Thou'lt find this skilful hand can throw
The reins around that tender form,
However wild, however warm.
Yes--trust me I can tame thy force,
And turn and wind thee in the course.
Though, wasting now thy careless hours,
Thou sport amid the herbs and flowers,
Soon shalt thou feel the rein's control,
And tremble at the wished-for goal!

[1] This ode, which is addressed to some Thracian girl, exists in
Heraclides, and has been imitated very frequently by Horace, as all the
annotators have remarked. Madame Dacier rejects the allegory, which runs
so obviously through the poem, and supposes it to have been addressed to a
young mare belonging to Polycrates.

Pierius, in the fourth book of his "Hieroglyphics," cites this ode, and
informs us that the horse was the hieroglyphical emblem of pride.

ODE LXVI.[1]

To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine,
Fairest of all that fairest shine;
To thee, who rulest with darts of fire
This world of mortals, young Desire!
And oh! thou nuptial Power, to thee
Who bearest of life the guardian key,
Breathing my soul in fervent praise,
And weaving wild my votive lays,
For thee, O Queen! I wake the lyre,
For thee, thou blushing young Desire,
And oh! for thee, thou nuptial Power,
Come, and illume this genial hour.

Look on thy bride, too happy boy,
And while thy lambent glance of joy
Plays over all her blushing charms,
Delay not, snatch her to thine arms,
Before the lovely, trembling prey,
Like a young birdling, wing away!
Turn, Stratocles, too happy youth,
Dear to the Queen of amorous truth,
And dear to her, whose yielding zone
Will soon resign her all thine own.
Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye,
Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh.
To those bewitching beauties turn;
For thee they blush, for thee they burn.

Not more the rose, the queen of flowers,
Outblushes all the bloom of bowers
Than she unrivalled grace discloses,
The sweetest rose, where all are roses.
Oh! may the sun, benignant, shed
His blandest influence o'er thy bed;
And foster there an infant tree,
To bloom like her, and tower like thee!

[1] This ode is introduced in the Romance of Theodorus Prodromus, and is
that kind of epithalamium which was sung like a scolium at the nuptial
banquet.

ODE LXVII.

Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn
The wealth of Amalthea's horn;
Nor should I ask to call the throne
Of the Tartessian prince my own;[1]
To totter through his train of years,
The victim of declining fears.
One little hour of joy to me
Is worth a dull eternity!

[1] He here alludes to Arganthonius, who lived, according to Lucian, an
hundred and fifty years; and reigned, according to Herodotus, eighty.

ODE LXVIII.

Now Neptune's month our sky deforms,
The angry night-cloud teems with storms;
And savage winds, infuriate driven,
Fly howling in the face of heaven!
Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom
With roseate rays of wine illume:
And while our wreaths of parsley spread
Their fadeless foliage round our head,
Let's hymn the almighty power of wine,
And shed libations on his shrine!

ODE LXIX.

They wove the lotus band to deck
And fan with pensile wreath each neck;
And every guest, to shade his head,
Three little fragrant chaplets spread;[1]
And one was of the Egyptian leaf,
The rest were roses, fair and brief:
While from a golden vase profound,
To all on flowery beds around,
A Hebe, of celestial shape,
Poured the rich droppings of the grape!

[1] Longepierre, to give an idea of the luxurious estimation in which
garlands were held by the ancients, relates an anecdote of a courtezan,
who, in order to gratify three lovers, without leaving cause for Jealousy
with any of them, gave a kiss to one, let the other drink after her, and
put a garland on the brow of the third; so that each was satisfied with
his favor, and flattered himself with the preference.

ODE LXX.

A broken cake, with honey sweet,
Is all my spare and simple treat:
And while a generous bowl I crown
To float my little banquet down,
I take the soft, the amorous lyre,
And sing of love's delicious fire:
In mirthful measures warm and free,
I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee!

ODE LXXI.

With twenty chords my lyre is hung,
And while I wake them all for thee,
Thou, O maiden, wild and young,
Disportest in airy levity.

The nursling fawn, that in some shade
Its antlered mother leaves behind,
Is not more wantonly afraid,
More timid of the rustling wind!

ODE LXXII.

Fare thee well, perfidious maid,
My soul, too long on earth delayed,
Delayed, perfidious girl, by thee,
Is on the wing for liberty.
I fly to seek a kindlier sphere,
Since thou hast ceased to love me here!

ODE LXXIII.

Awhile I bloomed, a happy flower,
Till love approached one fatal hour,
And made my tender branches feel
The wounds of his avenging steel.
Then lost I fell, like some poor willow
That falls across the wintry billow!

ODE LXXIV.

Monarch Love, resistless boy,
With whom the rosy Queen of Joy,
And nymphs, whose eyes have Heaven's hue,
Disporting tread the mountain-dew;
Propitious, oh! receive my sighs,
Which, glowing with entreaty, rise
That thou wilt whisper to the breast
Of her I love thy soft behest:
And counsel her to learn from thee.
That lesson thou hast taught to me.
Ah! if my heart no flattery tell,
Thou'lt own I've learned that lesson well!

ODE LXXV.

Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled,
Stream on the breeze like floating gold;
Come, within a fragrant cloud
Blushing with light, thy votary shroud;
And, on those wings that sparkling play,
Waft, oh, waft me hence away!
Love! my soul is full of thee,
Alive to all thy luxury.
But she, the nymph for whom I glow
The lovely Lesbian mocks my woe;
Smiles at the chill and hoary hues
That time upon my forehead strews.
Alas! I fear she keeps her charms,
In store for younger, happier arms!

ODE LXXVI.

Hither, gentle Muse of mine,
Come and teach thy votary old
Many a golden hymn divine,
For the nymph with vest of gold.

Pretty nymph, of tender age,
Fair thy silky looks unfold;
Listen to a hoary sage,
Sweetest maid with vest of gold!

ODE LXXVII.

Would that I were a tuneful lyre,
Of burnished ivory fair,
Which, in the Dionysian choir,
Some blooming boy should bear!

Would that I were a golden vase.
That some bright nymph might hold
My spotless frame, with blushing grace,
Herself as pure as gold!

ODE LXXVIII.

When Cupid sees how thickly now,
The snows of Time fall o'er my brow,
Upon his wing of golden light.
He passes with an eaglet's flight,
And flitting onward seems to say,
"Fare thee well, thou'st had thy day!"

Cupid, whose lamp has lent the ray,
That lights our life's meandering way,
That God, within this bosom stealing,
Hath wakened a strange, mingled feeling.
Which pleases, though so sadly teasing,
And teases, though so sweetly pleasing!

* * * * *

Let me resign this wretched breath
Since now remains to me
No other balm than kindly death,
To soothe my misery!

* * * * *

I know thou lovest a brimming measure,
And art a kindly, cordial host;
But let me fill and drink at pleasure--
Thus I enjoy the goblet most.

I fear that love disturbs my rest,
Yet feel not love's impassioned care;
I think there's madness in my breast
Yet cannot find that madness there!

* * * * *

From dread Leucadia's frowning steep,
I'll plunge into the whitening deep:
And there lie cold, to death resigned,
Since Love intoxicates my mind!

* * * * *

Mix me, child, a cup divine,
Crystal water, ruby wine;
Weave the frontlet, richly flushing
O'er my wintry temples blushing.
Mix the brimmer--Love and I
Shall no more the contest try.
Here--upon this holy bowl,
I surrender all my soul!

SONGS FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY.

HERE AT THY TOMB.

BY MELEAGER.

Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed,
Tears, which though vainly now they roll,
Are all love hath to give the dead,
And wept o'er thee with all love's soul;--

Wept in remembrance of that light.
Which naught on earth, without thee, gives,
Hope of my heart! now quenched in night,
But dearer, dead, than aught that lives.

Where is she? where the blooming bough
That once my life's sole lustre made?
Torn off by death, 'tis withering now,
And all its flowers in dust are laid.

Oh earth! that to thy matron breast
Hast taken all those angel charms,
Gently, I pray thee, let her rest,--
Gently, as in a mother's arms.

SALE OF CUPID.

BY MELEAGER.

Who'll buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he,
Fast asleep, sly rogue on his mother's knee;
So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep,
So I'll part with him now, while he's sound asleep.
See his arch little nose, how sharp 'tis curled,
His wings, too, even in sleep unfurled;
And those fingers, which still ever ready are found
For mirth or for mischief, to tickle, or wound.

He'll try with his tears your heart to beguile,
But never you mind--he's laughing all the while;
For little he cares, so he has his own whim,
And weeping or laughing are all one to him.
His eye is as keen as the lightning's flash,
His tongue like the red bolt quick and rash;
And so savage is he, that his own dear mother
Is scarce more safe in his hands than another.

In short, to sum up this darling's praise,
He's a downright pest in all sorts of ways;
And if any one wants such an imp to employ,
He shall have a dead bargain of this little boy.
But see, the boy wakes--his bright tears flow--
His eyes seem to ask could I sell him? oh no,
Sweet child no, no--though so naughty you be,
You shall live evermore with my Lesbia and me.

TO WEAVE A GARLAND FOR THE ROSE.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

To weave a garland for the rose.
And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be,
Were far less vain than to suppose
That silks and gems add grace to thee.
Where is the pearl whose orient lustre
Would not, beside thee, look less bright?
What gold could match the glossy cluster
Of those young ringlets full of light?

Bring from the land, where fresh it gleams,
The bright blue gem of India's mine,
And see how soon, though bright its beams,
'Twill pale before one glance of thine:
Those lips, too, when their sounds have blest us
With some divine, mellifluous air,
Who would not say that Beauty's cestus
Had let loose all its witcheries there?

Here, to this conquering host of charms
I now give up my spell-bound heart.
Nor blush to yield even Reason's arms,
When thou her bright-eyed conqueror art.
Thus to the wind all fears are given;
Henceforth those eyes alone I see.
Where Hope, as in her own blue heaven,
Sits beckoning me to bliss and thee!

WHY DOES SHE SO LONG DELAY?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Why does she so long delay?
Night is waning fast away;
Thrice have I my lamp renewed,
Watching here in solitude,
Where can she so long delay?
Where, so long delay?

Vainly now have two lamps shone;
See the third is nearly gone:
Oh that Love would, like the ray
Of that weary lamp, decay!
But no, alas, it burns still on,
Still, still, burns on.

Gods, how oft the traitress dear
Swore, by Venus, she'd be here!
But to one so false as she
What is man or deity?
Neither doth this proud one fear,--
No, neither doth she fear.

TWIN'ST THOU WITH LOFTY WREATH THY BROW?

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow?
Such glory then thy beauty sheds,
I almost think, while awed I bow
'Tis Rhea's self before me treads.
Be what thou wilt,--this heart
Adores whate'er thou art!

Dost thou thy loosened ringlets leave,
Like sunny waves to wander free?
Then, such a chain of charms they weave,
As draws my inmost soul from me.
Do what thou wilt,--I must
Be charm'd by all thou dost!

Even when, enwrapt in silvery veils,
Those sunny locks elude the sight,--
Oh, not even then their glory fails
To haunt me with its unseen light.
Change as thy beauty may,
It charms in every way.

For, thee the Graces still attend,
Presiding o'er each new attire,
And lending every dart they send
Some new, peculiar touch of fire,
Be what thou wilt,--this heart
Adores what'er thou art!

WHEN THE SAD WORD.

BY PAUL, THE SILENTIARY.

When the sad word, "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling,
And with it, Hope passes away,
Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling
That fatal farewell, bids me stay,
For oh! 'tis a penance so weary
One hour from thy presence to be,
That death to this soul were less dreary,
Less dark than long absence from thee.

Thy beauty, like Day, o'er the dull world breaking.
Brings life to the heart it shines o'er,
And, in mine, a new feeling of happiness waking,
Made light what was darkness before.
But mute is the Day's sunny glory,
While thine hath a voice, on whose breath,
More sweet than the Syren's sweet story,
My hopes hang, through life and through death!

MY MOPSA IS LITTLE.

BY PHILODEMUS.

My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown,
But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down,
And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;
In short, she has woven such nets round my heart,
That I ne'er from my dear little Mopsa can part,--
Unless I can find one that's dearer.

Her voice hath a music that dwells on the ear,
And her eye from its orb gives a daylight so clear,
That I'm dazzled whenever I meet her;
Her ringlets, so curly, are Cupid's own net,
And her lips, oh their sweetness I ne'er shall forget--
Till I light upon lips that are sweeter.

But 'tis not her beauty that charms me alone,
'Tis her mind, 'tis that language whose eloquent tone
From the depths of the grave could revive one:
In short, here I swear, that if death were her doom,
I would instantly join my dead love in the tomb--
Unless I could meet with a live

STILL, LIKE DEW IN SILENCE FALLING.

BY MELEAGER.

Still, like dew in silence falling,
Drops for thee the nightly tear
Still that voice the past recalling,
Dwells, like echo, on my ear,
Still, still!

Day and night the spell hangs o'er me,
Here forever fixt thou art:
As thy form first shone before me,
So 'tis graven on this heart,
Deep, deep!

Love, oh Love, whose bitter sweetness,
Dooms me to this lasting pain.
Thou who earnest with so much fleetness,
Why so slow to go again?
Why? why?

UP, SAILOR BOY, 'TIS DAY.

Up, sailor boy, 'tis day!
The west wind blowing,
The spring tide flowing,
Summon thee hence away.
Didst thou not hear yon soaring swallow sing?
Chirp, chirp,--in every note he seemed to say
'Tis Spring, 'tis Spring.
Up boy, away,--
Who'd stay on land to-day?
The very flowers
Would from their bowers
Delight to wing away!

Leave languid youths to pine
On silken pillows;
But be the billows
Of the great deep thine.
Hark, to the sail the breeze sings, "Let us fly;"
While soft the sail, replying to the breeze,
Says, with a yielding sigh,
"Yes, where you; please."
Up, boy, the wind, the ray,
The blue sky o'er thee,
The deep before thee,
All cry aloud, "Away!"

IN MYRTLE WREATHS.

BY ALCAEUS.

In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover,
Like them of old whose one immortal blow
Struck off the galling fetters that hung over
Their own bright land, and laid her tyrant low.
Yes, loved Harmodius, thou'rt undying;
Still midst the brave and free,
In isles, o'er ocean lying,
Thy home shall ever be.

In myrtle leaves my sword shall hide its lightning,
Like his, the youth, whose ever-glorious blade
Leapt forth like flame, the midnight banquet brightening;'
And in the dust a despot victim laid.
Blest youths; how bright in Freedom's story
Your wedded names shall be;
A tyrant's death your glory,
Your meed, a nation free!

JUVENILE POEMS.

1801.

TO JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

I feel a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of
our friend LITTLE'S Poems. I am not unconscious that there are many in the
collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted;
and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose;
but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the
consequence is you have them in their original form:

_non possunt nostros multae, Faustine, liturae
emendare jocos; una litura potest_.