On his harp then 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.

_ODE X._

'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 pa.s.s'd my way: 'Sir,' he answer'd, and the while Answer'd all in Doric style, 'Take it, for a trifle take it; Think not yet that I could make it; Pray, believe it was not I; No--it cost me many a sigh, And I can no longer keep Little G.o.ds, who murder sleep!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Here, then, here,' (I said with joy) 'Here is silver for the boy: He shall be my bosom guest, Idol of my pious breast!'

Little Love! thou now art mine, Warm me with that torch of thine; Make me feel as I have felt, Or thy waxen frame shall melt.

I must burn in warm desire, Or thou, my boy, in yonder fire!

_ODE XI._

The women tell me every day, That all my bloom has past away.

'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry, 'Behold this mirror with a sigh; The locks upon 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,

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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!

_ODE XII._

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 I've repell'd the tender lure, And hoped my heart should 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,

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Or meet him on the martial field.

And what did I unthinking do?

I took to arms, undaunted too; a.s.sumed the corslet, shield, and spear, And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, all you powers above!) I fought with Love! I fought with Love!

And now his arrows all were shed And I had just in terrors fled-- When heaving an indignant sigh To see me thus unwounded fly, And having now no other dart, He glanced himself into my heart!

My heart--alas the luckless day!

Received the G.o.d, and died away.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield!

Thy lord at length is forced to yield.

Vain, vain, is every outward care, My foe's within, and triumphs there.

_ODE XIII._

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 treasured gold my own.

But oh! be mine the rosy braid, The fervour of my brows to shade; Be mine the odours, richly sighing, Amidst my h.o.a.ry tresses flying.

To-day, I'll haste to quaff my wine, As if to-morrow ne'er should 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,

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Let us the festal hours beguile With mantling cup and cordial smile; And shed from every bowl of wine The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine!

For Death may come, with brow unpleasant, May come, when least we wish him present, And beckon to the sable sh.o.r.e, And grimly bid us drink no more!

_ODE XIV._

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, Which drank the current of my heart; Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed, Have made this vanquish'd bosom bleed;

[Ill.u.s.tration]

No--from an eye of liquid blue, A host of quiver'd cupids flew; And now my heart all bleeding lies Beneath this army of the eyes!

_ODE XV_.

Grave me a cup with brilliant grace, Deep as the rich and holy vase, Which on the shrine of Spring reposes, When shepherds hail that hour of roses.

Grave it with themes of chaste design, Form'd for a heavenly bowl like mine.

Display not there the barbarous rites, In which religious zeal delights;