The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 12

ODE LVI.

He, who instructs the youthful crew To bathe them in the brimmer's dew, And taste, uncloyed by rich excesses, All the bliss that wine possesses; He, who inspires the youth to bound Elastic through the dance's round,-- Bacchus, the G.o.d again is here, And leads along the blus.h.i.+ng year; The blus.h.i.+ng year with vintage teems, Ready to shed those cordial streams, Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth, Illuminate the sons of earth![1]

Then, when the ripe and vermil wine,-- Blest infant of the pregnant vine, Which now in mellow cl.u.s.ters swells,-- Oh! when it bursts its roseate cells, Brightly the joyous stream shall flow, To balsam every mortal woe!

None shall be then cast down or weak, For health and joy shall light each cheek; No heart will then desponding sigh, For wine shall bid despondence fly.

Thus--till another autumn's glow Shall bid another vintage flow.

[1] Madame Dacier thinks that the poet here had the nepenthe of Homer in his mind. Odyssey, lib. iv. This nepenthe was a something of exquisite charm, infused by Helen into the wine of her guests, which had the power of dispelling every anxiety. A French writer, De Mere, conjectures that this spell, which made the bowl so beguiling, was the charm of Helen's conversation. See Bayle, art. Helene.

ODE LVII[1]

Whose was the artist hand that spread Upon this disk the ocean's bed?

And, in a flight of fancy, high As aught on earthly wing can fly, Depicted thus, in semblance warm, The Queen of Love's voluptuous form Floating along the silvery sea In beauty's naked majesty!

Oh! he hath given the enamoured sight A witching banquet of delight, Where, gleaming through the waters clear, Glimpses of undreamt charms appear, And all that mystery loves to screen, Fancy, like Faith, adores unseen.[2]

Light as a leaf, that on the breeze Of summer skims the gla.s.sy seas, She floats along the ocean's breast, Which undulates in sleepy rest; While stealing on, she gently pillows Her bosom on the heaving billows.

Her bosom, like the dew-washed rose, Her neck, like April's sparkling snows, Illume the liquid path she traces, And burn within the stream's embraces.

Thus on she moves, in languid pride, Encircled by the azure tide, As some fair lily o'er a bed Of violets bends its graceful head.

Beneath their queen's inspiring glance, The dolphins o'er the green sea dance, Bearing in triumph young Desire, And infant Love with smiles of fire!

While, glittering through the silver waves, The tenants of the briny caves Around the pomp their gambols play, And gleam along the watery way.

[1] This ode is a very animated description of a picture of Venus on a discus, which represented the G.o.ddess in her first emergence from the waves. About two centuries after our poet wrote, the pencil of the artist Apelles embellished this subject, in his famous painting of the Venus Anadyomene, the model of which, as Pliny informs us, was the beautiful Campaspe, given to him by Alexander; though, according to Natalis Comes, lib. vii. cap. 16., it was Phryne who sat to Apelles for the face and breast of this Venus.

[2] The picture here has all the delicate character of the semi-reducta Venus, and affords a happy specimen of what the poetry of pa.s.sion _ought_ to be--glowing but through a veil, and stealing upon the heart from concealment. Few of the ancients have attained this modesty of description, which, like the golden cloud that hung over Jupiter and Juno, is impervious to every beam but that of fancy.

ODE LVIII.

When Gold, as fleet as zephyr's' pinion, Escapes like any faithless minion,[1]

And flies me (as he flies me ever),[2]

Do I pursue him? never, never!

No, let the false deserter go, For who would court his direst foe?

But when I feel my lightened mind No more by grovelling gold confined, Then loose I all such clinging cares, And cast them to the vagrant airs.

Then feel I, too, the Muse's spell, And wake to life the dulcet sh.e.l.l, Which, roused once more, to beauty sings, While love dissolves along the strings!

But, scarcely has my heart been taught How little Gold deserves a thought, When, lo! the slave returns once more, And with him wafts delicious store Of racy wine, whose genial art In slumber seals the anxious heart.

Again he tries my soul to sever From love and song, perhaps forever!

Away, deceiver! why pursuing Ceaseless thus my heart's undoing?

Sweet is the song of amorous fire.

Sweet the sighs that thrill the lyre; Oh! sweeter far than all the gold Thy wings can waft, thy mines can hold.

Well do I know thy arts, thy wiles-- They withered Love's young wreathed smiles; And o'er his lyre such darkness shed, I thought its soul of song was fled!

They dashed the wine-cup, that, by him, Was filled with kisses to the brim.[3]

Go--fly to haunts of sordid men, But come not near the bard again.

Thy glitter in the Muse's shade, Scares from her bower the tuneful maid; And not for worlds would I forego That moment of poetic glow, When my full soul, in Fancy's stream, Pours o'er the lyre, its swelling theme.

Away, away! to worldlings hence, Who feel not this diviner sense; Give gold to those who love that pest,-- But leave the poet poor and blest.

[1] There is a kind of pun in these words, as Madame Dacier has already remarked; for Chrysos, which signifies gold, was also a frequent name for a slave. In one of Lucian's dialogues, there is, I think, a similar play upon the word, where the followers of Chrysippus are called golden fishes.

The puns of the ancients are, in general, even more vapid than our own; some of the best are those recorded of Diogenes.

[2] This grace of iteration has already been taken notice of. Though sometimes merely a playful beauty, it is peculiarly expressive of impa.s.sioned sentiment, and we may easily believe that it was one of the many sources of that energetic sensibility which breathed through the style of Sappho.

[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 cl.u.s.ters 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 gus.h.i.+ng.

And for its bondage proudly blus.h.i.+ng 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, Pa.s.s the sweet moonlight hours away.

ODE LX.[1]

Awake to life, my sleeping sh.e.l.l, 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.