Part 2

If before my feet they lay, I would spurn them all away! Arm you, arm you, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight; Let me, oh my budding vine, Spill no other blood than thine. Yonder brimming goblet see, That alone shall vanquish me. Oh! I think it sweeter far To fall in banquet than in war!

_ODE XX._

When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy, The rosy harbinger of joy, Who, with the sunshine of the bowl, Thaws the winter of our soul; When to the inmost core he glides, And bathes it with his ruby tides, A flow of joy, a lively heat, Fires my brain, and wings my feet; 'Tis surely something sweet, I think, Nay, something heavenly sweet, to drink!

Sing, sing of love, let music's breath Softly beguile our rapturous death, While, my young Venus, thou and I To the voluptuous cadence die! Then waking from our languid trance, Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.

_ODE XXI._

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 straying, Silky twine in tendrils playing; 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, Burnish'd as the ivory bright. Let her eyebrows sweetly rise In jetty arches o'er her eyes, Gently in her crescent gliding, Just commingling, just dividing. But hast thou any sparkles warm, The lightning of her eyes to form?

Let them effuse the azure ray With which Minerva's glances play, And give them all that liquid fire That Venus' languid eyes respire. O'er her nose and cheek be shed Flushing white and mellow'd red; Gradual tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose. Then her lip, so rich in blisses! Sweet petitioner for kisses! Pouting nest of bland persuasion, Ripely suing Love's invasion. Then beneath the velvet chin, Whose dimple shades a love within, Mould her neck with grace descending. In a heaven of beauty ending; While airy charms, above, below, Sport and flutter on its snow. Now let a floating, lucid veil, Shadow her limbs, but not, conceal; 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.

_ODE XXII._

And now with all thy pencil's truth, Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth! Let his hair in lapses bright, Fall like streaming rays of light, And there the raven's dye confuse With the yellow sunbeam's hues. Let not the braid, with artful twine, The flowing of his locks confine; But loosen every golden ring, To float upon the breeze's wing, Beneath the front of polished glow. Front as fair as mountain-snow, And guileless as the dews of dawn,

Let the majestic brows be drawn, Of ebon dies, enriched by gold, Such as the scaly snakes unfold. Mingle in his jetty glances, Power that awes, and love that trances; Steal from Venus bland desire, Steal from Mars the look 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 let Beauty's rosy ray In flying blushes richly play; Blushes, of that celestial flame Which lights the cheek of virgin shame. Then for his lips, that ripely gem-- But let thy mind imagine them! Paint, where the ruby cell uncloses, Persuasion sleeping upon roses; And give his lip that speaking air, As if a word was hovering there! His neck of ivory splendour 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 then the breast supply, And Leda's son the sinewy thigh. But oh! suffuse his limbs of fire With all that glow of young desire,

Which kindles, when the wishful sigh Steals from the heart, unconscious why. Thy pencil, though divinely bright, Is envious of the eye's delight, Or its enamoured touch would shew His 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 a godlike portrait there; So like Bathyllus! sure there's none So like Bathyllus but the Sun! Oh! let this pictured god be mine, And keep the boy for Samos' shrine; Phoebus shall then Bathyllus be, Bathyllus then the deity!

_ODE XXIII._

One day, the Muses twined the hands Of baby Love, with flowery bands; And to celestial Beauty gave The captive infant as her slave. His mother comes with many a toy, To ransom her beloved boy; His mother sues, but all in vain!

He ne'er will leave his chains again. Nay, should they take his chains away, The little captive still would stay. 'If this,' he cries, 'a bondage be, Who could wish for liberty?'

_ODE XXIV._

Fly not thus my brow of snow, Lovely wanton! fly not so. Though the wane of age is mine, Though the brilliant flush is thine, Still I'm doom'd to sigh for thee, Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me! See, in yonder flowery braid, Cull'd for thee, my blushing maid,

How the rose, of orient glow, Mingles with the lily's snow; Mark, how sweet their tints agree, Just, my girl, like thee and me!

_ODE XXV._

Methinks, the pictur'd bull we see Is amorous Jove--it must be he! How fondly blest he seems to bear That fairest of Phoenician fair! How proud he breasts the foamy tide And spurns the billowy surge aside! Could any beast of vulgar vein, Undaunted thus defy the main? No: he descends from climes above, He looks the God, he breathes of Jove! [Illustration]

_ODE XXVI._

Away, away, you men of rules, What have I to do with schools? They'd make me learn, they'd make me think, But would they make me love and drink? Teach me this; and let me swim My soul upon the goblet's brim; Teach me this, and let me twine My arms around the nymph divine! Age begins to blanch my brow, I've time for nought but pleasure now. Fly, and cool my goblet's glow At yonder fountain's gelid flow; I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink

This soul to slumber as I drink! Soon, too soon, my jocund slave, You'll deck your master's grassy grave; And there's an end--for ah! you know They drink but little wine below!

_ODE XXVII._

See the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her spangled 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 hoary winter fly To flutter in a kinder sky. Now the genial star of day

Dissolves the murky clouds away; And cultur'd field, and winding stream, Are sweetly tissued by his beam. Now the earth prolific swells With leafy buds and flowery bells; Gemming shoots the olive twine, Clusters ripe festoon the vine; All along the branches creeping, Through the velvet foliage peeping, Little infant fruits we see Nursing into luxury!

_ODE XXVIII._

'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet I can quaff the brimming wine, As deep as any stripling fair, Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear; And if, amidst the wanton crew, I'm call'd to wind the dance's clue, Thou shall behold this vigorous hand, Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,

But brandishing a rosy flask, The only Thyrsus e'er I'll ask! Let those who pant for Glory's charms, Embrace her in the held of arms; While my inglorious placid soul Breathes not a wish beyond the bowl.

Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, And bathe me in its honied wave! For though my fading years decay, And though my bloom has passed away, Like old Silenus, sire divine, With blushes borrowed from my wine, I'll wanton 'mid the dancing train, And live my follies all again!

_ODE XXIX._

When I drink, I feel, I feel, Visions of poetic zeal! Warm with the goblet's fresh'ning dews, My heart invokes the heavenly Muse. When I drink my sorrow's o'er; I think of doubts and fears no more; But scatter to the railing wind Each gloomy phantom of the mind! When I drink, the jesting boy Bacchus himself partakes my joy; And while we dance through breathing bowers, Whose every gale is rich with flowers, In bowls he makes my senses swim, Till the gale breathes of nought but him! When I drink, I deftly twine Flowers, begemm'd with tears of wine; And, while with festive hand I spread The smiling garland round my head, Something whispers in my breast, How sweet it is to live at rest! When I drink, and perfume stills Around me all in balmy rills, Then as some beauty, smiling roses, In languor on my breast reposes, Venus! I breathe my vows to thee, In many a sigh of luxury! When I drink, my heart refines, And rises as the cup declines;

Rises in the genial flow, That none but social spirits know, When youthful revellers round the bowl, Dilating, mingle soul with soul! When I drink, the bliss is mine; There's bliss in every drop of wine! All other joys that I have known, I've scarcely dared to call my own; But this the Fates can ne'er destroy, Till death o'ershadows all my joy!

_ODE XXX._

Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head; Luckless urchin, not to see Within the leaves a slumbering bee! The bee awaked--with anger wild The bee awaked, and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies! 'Oh, mother!--I am wounded through-- I die with pain--in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing-- A bee it was--for once, I know

I heard a rustic call it so.' 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?'

_ODE XXXI._

Let us drain the nectar'd bowl, Let us raise the song of soul To him, the God who loves so well The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell! Him, who instructs the sons of earth To thrid the tangled dance of mirth; Him, who was nursed with infant Love, And cradled in the Paphian grove; Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms Has fondled in her twining arms. From him that dream of transport flows, Which sweet intoxication knows; With him, the brow forgets to darkle, And brilliant graces learn to sparkle. Behold! my boys a goblet bear, Whose sunny foam bedews 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! Oh! can the tears we lend to thought In life's account avail us aught? Can we discern, with all our lore, The path we're yet to journey o'er? No, no! the walk of life is dark; 'Tis wine alone can strike a spark! Then let me quaff the foamy tide, And through the dance meandering glide; Let me imbibe the spicy breath Of odours chafed to fragrant death; Or from the kiss of love inhale A more voluptuous, richer gale! To souls that court the phantom Care, Let him retire and shroud him there; While we exhaust the nectar'd bowl, And swell the choral song of soul To him, the God who loves so well The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!

_ODE XXXII._

Yes, be the glorious revel mine, Where humour sparkles from the wine! Around me let the youthful choir Respond to my beguiling lyre; And while the red cup circles round, Mingle in soul as well as sound! Let the bright nymph, with trembling eye, Beside me all in blushes lie; And, while she weaves a frontlet fair Of hyacinth to deck my hair, Oh! let me snatch her sidelong kisses, And that shall be my bliss of blisses! My soul, to festive feeling true, One pang of envy never knew;

And little has it learn'd to dread The gall that envy's tongue can shed. Away--I hate the slanderous dart, Which steals to wound th' unwary heart; And oh! I hate, with all my soul, Discordant clamours o'er the bowl, Where every cordial heart should be Attuned to peace and harmony. Come, let us hear the soul of song Expire the silver harp along; And through the dance's ringlet move, With maidens mellowing into love: Thus simply happy, thus at peace, Sure such a life should never cease!

_ODE XXXIII._

'Twas in an airy dream of night, I fancied that I wing'd my flight On pinions fleeter than the wind, While little Love, whose feet were twined (I know not why) with chains of lead, Pursued me as I trembling fled; Pursued--and could I e'er have thought?-- Swift as the moment I was caught! What does the wanton fancy mean By such a strange, illusive scene?

I fear she whispers to my breast, That you, my girl, have stol'n my rest; That though my fancy, for a while, Has hung on many a woman's smile, I soon dissolved the passing vow, And ne'er was caught by love till now!

_ODE XXXIV._

As in the Lemnian caves of fire, The mate of her who nursed Desire Moulded the glowing steel, to form Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm; While Venus every barb imbues With droppings of her honied dews; And Love (alas the victim-heart!) Tinges with gall the burning dart; Once, to this Lemnian cave of flame, The crested Lord of battles came; 'Twas from the ranks of war he rush'd, His spear with many a life-drop blush'd! He saw the mystic darts, and smiled Derision on the archer-child.

'And dost thou smile?' said little Love; 'Take this dart, and thou mayst prove, That though they pass the breeze's flight, My bolts are not so feathery light.' He took the shaft--and oh! thy look, Sweet Venus! when the shaft he took-- He sigh'd, and felt the urchin's art; He sigh'd, in agony of heart, 'It is not light--I die with pain! Take--take thy arrow back again.' 'No,' said the child, 'it must not be, That little dart was made for thee!'

_ODE XXXV._

How I love the festive boy, Tripping wild 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, Age is on his temples hung, But his heart--his heart is young!

_ODE XXXVI._

He, who instructs the youthful crew To bathe them in the brimmer's dew, And taste, uncloy'd by rich excesses, All the bliss that wine possesses! He, who inspires the youth to glance In winged circlets through the dance; Bacchus, the god again is here, And leads along the blushing year; The blushing year with rapture teems, Ready to shed those cordial streams, Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth, Illuminate the sons of earth, And when the ripe and vermeil wine, Sweet infant of the pregnant vine, Which now in mellow clusters swells, Oh! when it bursts its rosy cells, The heavenly stream shall mantling flow, To balsam every mortal woe! No youth shall then be wan or weak, For dimpling health shall light the cheek; No heart shall then desponding sigh, For wine shall bid despondence fly! Thus--till another autumn's glow Shall bid another vintage flow!

_ODE XXXVII._

And whose immortal hand could shed Upon this disk the ocean's bed? And, in a frenzied flight of soul Sublime as heaven's eternal pole, Imagine thus, in semblance warm, The Queen of Love's voluptuous form Floating along the silvery sea In beauty's naked majesty! Oh! he has given the raptured sight A witching banquet of delight; And all those sacred scenes of love, Where only hallow'd eyes may rove, Lie, faintly glowing, half conceal'd, Within the lucid billows veil'd. Light as the leaf, that summer's breeze Has wafted o'er the glassy seas, She floats upon the ocean's breast, Which undulates in sleepy rest, And stealing on, she gently pillows Her bosom on the amorous billows. Her bosom, like the humid rose, Her neck, like dewy-sparkling snows, Illume the liquid path she traces, And burn within the stream's embraces! In languid luxury soft she glides, Encircled by the azure tides, Like some fair lily, faint with weeping, Upon a bed of violets sleeping! Beneath their queen's inspiring glance, The dolphins o'er the green sea dance, Bearing in triumph young Desire, And baby Love with smiles of fire! While, sparkling on the silver waves, The tenants of the briny caves Around the pomp in eddies play, And gleam along the watery way.

_ODE XXXVIII._

While we invoke the wreathed spring, Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing; Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers, Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers; Whose virgin blush of chasten'd dye, Enchants so much our mortal eye. When pleasure's bloomy season glows, The Graces love to twine the rose; The rose is warm Dione's bliss, And flushes like Dione's kiss! Oft has the poet's magic tongue The rose's fair luxuriance sung; And long the Muses, heavenly maids, Have rear'd it in their tuneful shades. When, at the early glance of morn, It sleeps upon the glittering thorn, 'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence, To cull the timid flowret thence, And wipe with tender hand away The tear that on its blushes lay! 'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems, Yet dropping with Aurora's gems, And fresh inhale the spicy sighs That from the weeping buds arise. When revel reigns, when mirth is high, And Bacchus beams in every eye, Our rosy fillets scent exhale, And fill with balm the fainting gale! Oh! there is nought in nature bright, Where roses do not shed their light! When morning paints the orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes; The nymphs display the rose's charms, It mantles o'er their graceful arms; Through Cytherea's form it glows, And mingles with the living snows. The rose distils a healing balm, The beating pulse of pain to calm; Preserves the cold inurned clay, And mocks the vestige of decay: And when at length, in pale decline, Its florid beauties fade and pine, Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath Diffuses odour e'en in death! Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung? Attend--for thus the tale is sung.

When, humid, from the silvery stream, Effusing beauty's warmest beam, Venus appear'd, in flushing hues, Mellow'd by ocean's briny dews; When, in the starry courts above, The pregnant brain of mighty Jove Disclosed the nymph of azure glance, The nymph who shakes the martial lance! Then, then, in strange eventful hour, The earth produced an infant flower, Which sprung, with blushing tinctures drest, And wanton'd o'er its parent breast. The gods beheld this brilliant birth, And hail'd the Rose, the boon of earth! With nectar drops, a ruby tide, The sweetly orient buds they dyèd, And bade them bloom, the flowers divine Of him who sheds the teeming vine; And bade them on the spangled thorn Expand their bosoms to the morn.

_ODE XXXIX._

When I behold the festive train Of dancing youth, I'm young again! Memory wakes her magic trance, And wings me lightly through the dance. Come, Cybeba, smiling maid! Cull the flower and twine the braid; Bid the blush of summer's rose Burn upon my brow of snows; And let me, while the wild and young Trip the mazy dance along, Fling my heap of years away, And be as wild, as young as they.

Hither haste, some cordial soul! Give my lips the brimming bowl; Oh! you will see this hoary sage Forget his locks, forget his age. He still can chant the festive hymn, He still can kiss the goblet's brim; He still can act the mellow raver, And play the fool as sweet as ever!

_ODE XL._

We read the flying courser's name Upon his side in marks of flame; And, by their turban'd brows alone, The warriors of the East are known. But in the lover's glowing eyes, The inlet to his bosom lies;

Thro' them we see the small faint mark, Where Love has dropt his burning spark!

_ODE XLI._

When Spring begems the dewy scene, How sweet to walk the velvet green, And hear the Zephyr's languid sighs, As o'er the scented mead he flies! How sweet to mark the pouting vine, Ready to fall in tears of wine;

And with the maid, whose every sigh Is love and bliss, entranced to lie Where the imbowering branches meet-- Oh! is not this divinely sweet?

_ODE XLII._

I saw the smiling bard of pleasure, The minstrel of the Teian measure; 'Twas in a vision of the night. He beam'd upon my wond'ring sight; I heard his voice, and warmly prest The dear enthusiast to my breast. His tresses wore a silvery dye, But beauty sparkled in his eye; Sparkled in his eyes of fire, Through the mist of soft desire. His lip exhaled, whene'er he sigh'd, The fragrance of the racy tide; And, as with weak and reeling feet, He came my coral kiss to meet,

An infant, of the Cyprian band, Guided him on with tender hand. Quick from his glowing brows he drew His braid, of many a wanton hue, I took the braid of wanton twine, It breathed of him and blush'd with wine! I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow, And ah! I feel its magic now! I feel that e'en his garland's touch Can make the bosom love too much!

_ODE XLIII._

Give me the harp of epic song, Which Homer's finger thrill'd along; But tear away the sanguine string, For war is not the theme I sing. Proclaim the laws of festal right I'm monarch of the board to-night; And all around shall brim as high, And quaff the tide as deep as I! And when the cluster's mellowing dews Their warm, enchanting balm infuse Our feet shall catch th' elastic bound, And reel us through the dance's round.

Oh, Bacchus! we shall sing to thee, In wild but sweet ebriety! And flash around such sparks of thought, As Bacchus could alone have taught! Then give the harp of epic song, Which Homer's finger thrill'd along; But tear away the sanguine string, For war is not the theme I sing!

_ODE XLIV._