The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore Part 8

Thus he spoke, and she the while, Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, "My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch, How must the heart, ah, Cupid be, The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"

[1] Theocritus has imitated this beautiful ode in his nineteenth idyl; but is very inferior, I think, to his original, in delicacy of point and navete of expression. Spenser, in one of his smaller compositions, has sported more diffusely on the same subject. The poem to which I allude begins thus:--

Upon a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbering All in his mother's lap; A gentle bee, with his loud trumpet murmuring, About him flew by hap, etc.

ODE x.x.xVI.[1]

If h.o.a.rded gold possest the power To lengthen life's too fleeting hour, And purchase from the hand of death A little span, a moment's breath, How I would love the precious ore!

And every hour should swell my store; That when death came, with shadowy pinion, To waft me to his bleak dominion, I might, by bribes, my doom delay, And bid him call some distant day.

But, since not all earth's golden store Can buy for us one bright hour more, Why should we vainly mourn our fate, Or sigh at life's uncertain date?

Nor wealth nor grandeur can illume The silent midnight of the tomb.

No--give to others h.o.a.rded treasures-- Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures-- The goblet rich, the board of friends, Whose social souls the goblet blends;[2]

And mine, while yet I've life to live, Those joys that love alone can give.

[1] Fontenelle has translated this ode, in his dialogue between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, where, on weighing the merits of both these personages, he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet.

[2] The goblet rich, the board of friends.

Whose social soul the goblet blends.

This communion Of friends.h.i.+p, which sweetened the bowl of Anacreon, has not been forgotten by the author of the following scholium, where the blessings of life are enumerated with proverbial simplicity:

Of mortal blessing here the first is health, And next those charms by which the eye we move; The third is wealth, unwounding guiltless wealth, And then, sweet intercourse with those we love!

ODE x.x.xVII.

'Twas night, and many a circling bowl Had deeply warmed my thirsty soul; As lulled in slumber I was laid, Bright visions o'er my fancy played.

With maidens, blooming as the dawn, I seemed to skim the opening lawn; Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew, We flew, and sported as we flew!

Some ruddy striplings, who lookt on-- With cheeks that like the wine-G.o.d's shone, Saw me chasing, free and wild, These blooming maids, and slyly smiled; Smiled indeed with wanton glee, Though none could doubt they envied me.

And still I flew--and now had caught The panting nymphs, and fondly thought To gather from each rosy lip A kiss that Jove himself might sip-- When sudden all my dream of joys, Blus.h.i.+ng nymphs and laughing boys, All were gone!--"Alas!" I said, Sighing for the illusion fled, "Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore, Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"[1]

[1] Dr. Johnson, in his preface to Shakespeare, animadverting upon the commentators of that poet, who pretended, in every little coincidence of thought, to detect an imitation of some ancient poet, alludes in the following words to the line of Anacreon before us: "I have been told that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream says, 'I cried to sleep again,' the author imitates Anacreon, who had, like any other man, the same wish on the same occasion."

ODE x.x.xVIII.

Let us drain the nectared bowl, Let us raise the song of soul To him, the G.o.d who loves so well The nectared bowl, the choral swell; The G.o.d who taught the sons of earth To thread the tangled dance of mirth; Him, who was nurst with infant Love, And cradled in the Paphian grove; Him, that the Snowy Queen of Charms So oft has fondled in her arms.

Oh 'tis from him the transport flows, Which sweet intoxication knows; With him, the brow forgets its gloom, And brilliant graces learn to bloom.

Behold!--my boys a goblet bear, Whose sparkling foam lights up the air.

Where are now the tear, the sigh?

To the winds they fly, they fly!

Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking, Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!

Say, can the tears we lend to thought In life's account avail us aught?

Can we discern with all our lore, The path we've yet to journey o'er?

Alas, alas, in ways so dark, 'Tis only wine can strike a spark!

Then let me quaff the foamy tide, And through the dance meandering glide; Let me imbibe the spicy breath Of odors chafed to fragrant death; Or from the lips of love inhale A more ambrosial, richer gale!

To hearts that court the phantom Care, Let him retire and shroud him there; While we exhaust the nectared bowl, And swell the choral song of soul To him, the G.o.d who loves so well The nectared bowl, the choral swell!

ODE x.x.xIX.

How I love the festive boy, Tripping through the dance of joy!

How I love the mellow sage, Smiling through the veil of age!

And whene'er this man of years In the dance of joy appears, Snows may o'er his head be flung, But his heart--his heart is young.

ODE XL.

I know that Heaven hath sent me here, To run this mortal life's career; The scenes which I have journeyed o'er, Return no more--alas! no more!

And all the path I've yet to go, I neither know nor ask to know.

Away, then, wizard Care, nor think Thy fetters round this soul to link; Never can heart that feels with me Descend to be a slave to thee!

And oh! before the vital thrill, Which trembles at my heart is still, I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers, And gild with bliss my fading hours; Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom, And Venus dance me to the tomb!