The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 4

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 maddened many, But the poet more than any, Venus, for a hymn of love, Warbled in her votive grove,[2]

('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 pa.s.sion 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 Ruffling 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 wantoned round To his lyre's beguiling sound; Or with gently moving-wings Fanned 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 chattered! prating crow Never yet did chatter so.

[1] The dove of Anacreon, bearing a letter from the poet to his mistress, is met by a stranger, with whom this dialogue, is imagined.

[2] "This pa.s.sage is invaluable, and I do not think that anything so beautiful or so delicate has ever been said. What an idea does it give of the poetry of the man, from whom Venus herself, the mother of the Graces and the Pleasures, purchases a little hymn with one of her favorite doves!"--LONGEPIERRE.

ODE XVI.[1]

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;[2]

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, Burnished as the ivory bright.

Let her eyebrows smoothly rise In 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, Mixt with the liquid light that lies In Cytherea's languid eyes.

O'er her nose and cheek be shed Flushing white and softened red; Mingling tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose.

Then her lip, so rich in blisses, Sweet pet.i.tioner 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;[3]

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!

[1] This ode and the next may be called companion-pictures; they are highly finished, and give us an excellent idea of the taste of the ancients in beauty.

[2] The ancients have been very enthusiastic in their praises of the beauty of hair. Apuleius, in the second book of his Milesiacs, says that Venus herself, if she were bald, though surrounded by the Graces and the Loves, could not be pleasing even to her husband Vulcan.

[3] This delicate art of description, which leaves imagination to complete the picture, has been seldom adopted in the imitations of this beautiful poem. Ronsard is exceptionally minute; and Politia.n.u.s, in his charming portrait of a girl, full of rich and exquisite diction, has lifted the veil rather too much. The "_questa che tu m'intendi_" should be always left to fancy.

ODE XVII.

And now with all thy pencil's truth, Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth!

Let his hair, in ma.s.ses 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 flushed with manhood's early glow, And guileless as the dews of dawn, Let the majestic brows be drawn, Of ebon hue, enriched by gold, Such as dark, shining snakes unfold.

Mix in his eyes the power alike, 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 from the sunny apple seek The velvet down that spreads his cheek; And there, if art so far can go, The ingenuous blush of boyhood show.

While, for his mouth--but no,--in vain Would words 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 son 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 enamoured touch would show The shoulder, fair as sunless snow, Which now in veiling shadow lies, Removed from all but Fancy's eyes.

Now, for his feet--but hold--forbear-- I see the sun-G.o.d's portrait there:[1]

Why paint Bathyllus? when in truth, There, in that G.o.d, thou'st sketched 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!

[1] The abrupt turn here is spirited, but requires some explanation. While the artist is pursuing the portrait of Bathyllus, Anacreon, we must suppose, turns around and sees a picture of Apollo, which was intended for an altar at Samos. He then instantly tells the painter to cease his work; that this picture will serve for Bathyllus; and that, when he goes to Samos, he may make an Apollo of the portrait of the boy which he had begun.

ODE XVIII.

Now the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly.

Bring me wine in br.i.m.m.i.n.g urns Cool my lip, it burns, it burns!

Sunned 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.[1]

But to you, my burning heart, What can now relief impart?

Can br.i.m.m.i.n.g bowl, or floweret's dew, Cool the flame that scorches you?

[1] In the poem of Mr. Sheridan's, "Uncouth is this moss-covered grotto of stone," there is an idea very singularly coincident with this of Angeria.n.u.s:--

And thou, stony grot, in thy arch may'st preserve Some lingering drops of the night-fallen dew: Let them fall on her bosom of snow, and they'll serve As tears of my sorrow entrusted to you.