The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 9

ODE XLI.

When Spring adorns the dewy scene, How sweet to walk the velvet green, And hear the west wind's gentle sighs, As o'er the scented mead it flies!

How sweet to mark the pouting vine, Ready to burst in tears of wine; And with some maid, who breathes but love, To walk, at noontide, through the grove, Or sit in some cool, green recess-- Oh, is this not true happiness?

ODE XLII.[1]

Yes, be the glorious revel mine, Where humor sparkles from the wine.

Around me, let the youthful choir Respond to my enlivening lyre; And while the red cup foams along, Mingle in soul as well as song.

Then, while I sit, with flowerets crowned, To regulate the goblets round.

Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride, Be seated smiling by my side, And earth has not a gift or power That I would envy, in that hour.

Envy!--oh never let its blight Touch the gay hearts met here tonight.

Far hence be slander's sidelong wounds, Nor harsh dispute, nor discord's sounds Disturb a scene, where all should be Attuned to peace and harmony.

Come, let us hear the harp's gay note Upon the breeze inspiring float, While round us, kindling into love, Young maidens through the light dance move.

Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace, Sure such a life should never cease!

[1] The character of Anacreon is here very strikingly depicted. His love of social, harmonized pleasures, is expressed with a warmth, amiable and endearing.

ODE XLIII.

While our rosy fillets shed Freshness o'er each fervid head, With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile.

And while the harp, impa.s.sioned flings Tuneful rapture from its strings,[1]

Some airy nymph, with graceful bound, Keeps measure to the music's sound; Waving, in her snowy hand, The leafy Baccha.n.a.lian wand, Which, as the tripping wanton flies, Trembles all over to her sighs.

A youth the while, with loosened hair, Floating on the listless air, Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone, A tale of woe, alas, his own; And oh, the sadness in his sigh.

As o'er his lips the accents die!

Never sure on earth has been Half so bright, so blest a scene.

It seems as Love himself had come To make this spot his chosen home;--[2]

And Venus, too, with all her wiles, And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, All, all are here, to hail with me The Genius of Festivity!

[1] Respecting the barbiton a host of authorities may be collected, which, after all, leave us ignorant of the nature of the instrument. There is scarcely any point upon which we are so totally uninformed as the music of the ancients. The authors extant upon the subject are, I imagine, little understood; and certainly if one of their moods was a progression by quarter-tones, which we are told was the nature of the enharmonic scale, simplicity was by no means the characteristic of their melody; for this is a nicety of progression of which modern music is not susceptible. The invention of the barbiton is, by Athenaeus, attributed to Anacreon.

[2] The introduction of these deities to the festival is merely allegorical. Madame Dacier thinks that the poet describes a masquerade, where these deities were personated by the company in masks. The translation will conform with either idea.

ODE XLIV.[1]

Buds of roses, virgin flowers, Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers, In the bowl of Bacchus steep, Till with crimson drops they weep.

Twine the rose, the garland twine, Every leaf distilling wine; Drink and smile, and learn to think That we were born to smile and drink.

Rose, thou art the sweetest flower That ever drank the amber shower; Rose, thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.

Even the G.o.ds, who walk the sky, Are amorous of thy scented sigh.

Cupid, too, in Paphian shades, His hair with rosy fillets braids, When with the blushing sister Graces, The wanton winding dance he traces.

Then bring me, showers of roses bring, And shed them o'er me while I sing.

Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine, Wreathing my brow with rose and vine, I lead some bright nymph through the dance, Commingling soul with every glance!

[1] This spirited poem is a eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty- fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes refers us, the rose is fancifully styled "the eye of flowers;" and the same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favors of the Muse "the roses of the Pleria."

ODE XLV.

Within this goblet, rich and deep, I cradle all my woes to sleep.

Why should we breathe the sigh of fear, Or pour the unavailing tear?

For death will never heed the sigh, Nor soften at the tearful eye; And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep, Must all alike be sealed in sleep.

Then let us never vainly stray, In search of thorns, from pleasure's way; But wisely quaff the rosy wave, Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave; And in the goblet, rich and deep, Cradle our crying woes to sleep.

ODE XLVI.[1]

Behold, the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her scented wing: While virgin Graces, warm with May; Fling roses o'er her dewy way.

The murmuring billows of the deep Have languished into silent sleep; And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave Their plumes in the reflecting wave; While cranes from h.o.a.ry winter fly To flutter in a kinder sky.

Now the genial star of day Dissolves the murky clouds away; And cultured field, and winding stream, Are freshly glittering in his beam.

Now the earth prolific swells With leafy buds and flowery bells; Gemming shoots the olive twine, Cl.u.s.ters ripe festoon the vine; All along the branches creeping, Through the velvet foliage peeping, Little infant fruits we see, Nursing into luxury.

[1] The fastidious affectation of some commentators has denounced this ode as spurious. Degen p.r.o.nounces the four last lines to be the patch-work of some miserable versificator, and Brunck condemns the whole ode. It appears to me, on the contrary, to be elegantly graphical: full of delicate expressions and luxuriant imagery.