THE ODES OF ANACREON.

THE ODES OF ANACREON.

TRANSLATED BY THOMAS MOORE.

WITH FIFTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIVE DESIGNS BY

GIRODET DE ROUSSY.

NOW FIRST PRODUCED IN ENGLAND.

LONDON: JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, PICCADILLY.

LONDON: Strangeways and Walden, Printers, Castle St. Leicester Sq.

[Pg 7]

INTRODUCTION

TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.

Amongst the innumerable translators of Anacreon, there was one—a Frenchman by birth—who was both an illustrious painter and a literary enthusiast. Girodet de Roussy, inspired by a genius altogether Greek in its character, has translated Anacreon better by his pencil than he could have been translated by words. One might fancy that his designs had been executed under Anacreon's own eye by some Greek artist, who had himself witnessed that soft and voluptuous existence, where song and pleasure are one.

Seldom indeed have chasteness of execution and voluptuousness of character been so curiously and indissolubly blended. Seldom has a modern artist so happily caught the spirit of an ancient poet. We seem to [Pg 8]be transported, as in a dream, to the vines, and orange-groves, and cloudless skies of Greece, and the wearied spirit abandons itself for a while to the soft influences of the azure heaven, the countless luxuriance of roses, the undulating forms of the fair girls dancing in the shade, while youthful attendants brim the beaker with wine. Under such influences we remember that youth, and love, and mirth are immortal, and we say with Horace,—

In that close wrestle of the genius that imitates with the genius that creates, Girodet alone came out from the trial successfully. He has shown himself the rival of Anacreon in grace, in abandon, in naïveté. He has succeeded in depicting his poet's theme with equal elegance and delicacy. Loving with a real love those old Greek songs, he has displayed them in living beauty before our eyes in fifty-four exquisite drawings. To attempt such a masterpiece required a poet's as well as a painter's skill; and Girodet was both a painter and a poet.

[Pg 9]

In examining these compositions, one cannot abstain from a certain kind of surprise: all the odes of Anacreon revolve upon two or three central ideas, expressed in a manner full of grace, unquestionably, but still always the same ideas. The artist, while not deviating from the narrow circle traced for him by the poet, shows a fecundity and variety that are truly marvellous—that astonish and enchant us at the same time. The nobility, elegance, and wealth of accessories that prevail throughout the whole series might, as we have already hinted, lead us to suppose that we owed them to one of the famous artists that Greece produced: the painter and the poet seem to have been born under one heaven, and informed with one soul.

The manners of the time in which Anacreon lived permitted him to say many things which, in their crudity, might offend our modern taste. Girodet is not less voluptuous than Anacreon; but he always maintains that grace and delicacy which add so great a charm to the voluptuous: nowhere in his animated panorama is sight or sense shocked.

These designs originally accompanied a translation of the Odes of Anacreon, made by the painter himself and published shortly after his[Pg 10] death. Some small photographs of them on a greatly reduced scale appeared in 1864, in an exquisite little edition of the original Greek, from the press of Firmin Didot, at the almost prohibitive price of Two Pounds. The present reproductions are on a scale more proportionate with the originals, and constitute the first appearance of Girodet's designs in England, where, we feel assured, they will be appreciated as they deserve by all true lovers of classical art.

The English verse-translation of Moore has been chosen to accompany them, because, though it has often been objected to by the learned for its imperfect scholarship, it seemed to us to be most in harmony with the real spirit of the great French painter, and of the old Greek poet himself.

Oct. 25, 1869.

[Pg 11]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

FRONTISPIECE—THE APOTHEOSIS OF ANACREON.

ODE I.[Pg 14]

I often wish this languid lyre, This warbler of my soul's desire, Could raise the breath of song sublime, To men of fame in former time. But when the soaring theme I try, Along the chords my numbers die, And whisper, with dissolving tone, 'Our sighs are given to love alone!' Indignant at the feeble lay, I tore the panting chords away, Attuned them to a nobler swell, And struck again the breathing shell;

ODE II.[Pg 18]

TO all that breathe the airs of heaven, Some boon of strength has Nature given. When the majestic bull was born, She fenced his brow with wreathèd horn. She arm'd the courser's foot of air, And wing'd with speed the panting hare. She gave the lion fangs of terror, And, on the ocean's crystal mirror, Taught the unnumber'd scaly throng To trace their liquid path along; While for the umbrage of the grove,

ODE III.[Pg 22]

'TWAS noon of night, when round the pole The sullen Bear is seen to roll; And mortals, wearied with the day, Are slumbering all their cares away; An infant, at that dreary hour, Came weeping to my silent bower, And waked me with a piteous prayer, To save him from the midnight air! 'And who art thou,' I waking cry, 'That bidd'st my blissful visions fly?' 'O gentle sire!' the infant said, 'In pity take me to thy shed; Nor fear deceit: a lonely child I wander o'er the gloomy wild.

[Pg 25]

[Pg 26]

[Pg 27]

[Pg 28]

[Pg 33]

ODE IV.[Pg 34]

STREW me a breathing bed of leaves, Where lotos with the myrtle weaves; And while in luxury's dream I sink, Let me the balm of Bacchus drink! In this delicious hour of joy, Young Love shall be my goblet-boy; Folding his little golden vest, With cinctures, round his snowy breast, Himself shall hover by my side, And minister the racy tide! Swift as the wheels that kindling roll, Our life is hurrying to the goal: A scanty dust, to feed the wind, Is all the trace 'twill leave behind. Why do we shed the rose's bloom Upon the cold insensate tomb? Can flowery breeze, or odour's breath,

[Pg 37]

ODE V.[Pg 38]

BUDS of roses, virgin flowers, Cull'd 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! E'en the gods, who walk the sky, Are amorous of thy scented sigh. Cupid too, in Paphian shades, His hair with rosy fillet braids, When with the blushing naked Graces, The wanton winding dance he traces.

[Pg 41]

ODE VI.[Pg 42]

WHILE our rosy fillets shed Blushes o'er each fervid head, With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile. And while the harp, impassion'd, flings Tuneful rapture from the strings, Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs, Through the dance luxuriant swims, Waving, in her snowy hand, The leafy Bacchanalian wand, Which, as the tripping wanton flies, Shakes its tresses to her sighs; A youth the while, with loosen'd hair, Floating on the listless air, Sings to the wild harp's tender tone,

[Pg 45]

ODE VII.[Pg 46]

ARM'D with hyacinthine rod, (Arms enough for such a god,) Cupid bade me wing my pace, And try with him the rapid race. O'er the wild torrent, rude and deep. By tangled brake and pendent steep, With weary foot I panting flew, My brow was chill with drops of dew. And now my soul, exhausted, dying,

[Pg 49]

ODE VIII.[Pg 50]

'TWAS night, and many a circling bowl Had deeply warmed my swimming soul; As lull'd in slumber I was laid, Bright visions o'er my fancy play'd! With virgins blooming as the dawn, I seem'd to trace the opening lawn; Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew, We flew, and sported as we flew! Some ruddy striplings, young and sleek, With blush of Bacchus on their cheek, Saw me trip the flowery wild With dimpled girls, and slily smiled; Smiled indeed with wanton glee, But, ah! 'twas plain they envied me.

[Pg 53]

ODE IX.[Pg 54]

TELL me, why, my sweetest dove, Thus your humid pinions move, Shedding through the air in showers Essence of the balmiest flowers? Tell me whither, whence you rove, Tell me all, my sweetest dove.— Curious stranger! I belong To the bard of Teian song:

[Pg 57]

[Pg 58]

[Pg 61]

[Pg 65]

ODE X.[Pg 66]

'TELL me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay thee For this little waxen toy, Image of the Paphian boy?' Thus I said the other day, To a youth who pass'd my way: 'Sir,' he answer'd, and the while Answer'd all in Doric style, 'Take it, for a trifle take it; Think not yet that I could make it; Pray, believe it was not I; No—it cost me many a sigh, And I can no longer keep Little gods, who murder sleep!

[Pg 69]

[Pg 70]

ODE XI.

THE women tell me every day, That all my bloom has past away. 'Behold,' the pretty wantons cry, 'Behold this mirror with a sigh; The locks upon thy brow are few, And like the rest, they're withering too!' Whether decline has thinn'd my hair, I'm sure I neither know nor care; But this I know, and this I feel,

[Pg 73]

[Pg 74]

ODE XII.

I WILL; I will; the conflict's past, And I'll consent to love at last. Cupid has long, with smiling art, Invited me to yield my heart; And I have thought that peace of mind Should not be for a smile resign'd; And I've repell'd the tender lure, And hoped my heart should sleep secure. But, slighted in his boasted charms, The angry infant flew to arms; He slung his quiver's golden frame, He took his bow, his shafts of flame, And proudly summon'd me to yield,

[Pg 77]

[Pg 81]

[Pg 82]

ODE XIII.

I CARE not for the idle state Of Persia's king, the rich, the great! I envy not the monarch's throne, Nor wish the treasured gold my own. But oh! be mine the rosy braid, The fervour of my brows to shade; Be mine the odours, richly sighing, Amidst my hoary tresses flying. To-day, I'll haste to quaff my wine, As if to-morrow ne'er should shine; But if to-morrow comes, why then— I'll haste to quaff my wine again. And thus while all our days are bright, Nor time has dimm'd their bloomy light,

[Pg 85]

[Pg 86]

ODE XIV.

THY harp may sing of Troy's alarms, Or tell the tale of Theban arms; With other wars my song shall burn, For other wounds my harp shall mourn. 'Twas not the crested warrior's dart, Which drank the current of my heart; Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed, Have made this vanquish'd bosom bleed;

[Pg 89]

[Pg 90]

ODE XV.

GRAVE me a cup with brilliant grace, Deep as the rich and holy vase, Which on the shrine of Spring reposes, When shepherds hail that hour of roses. Grave it with themes of chaste design, Form'd for a heavenly bowl like mine. Display not there the barbarous rites, In which religious zeal delights;

[Pg 93]

[Pg 97]

[Pg 98]

ODE XVI.

THE Phrygian rock that braves the storm, Was once a weeping matron's form; And Progne, hapless, frantic maid, Is now a swallow in the shade. Oh! that a mirror's form were mine, To sparkle with that smile divine; And like my heart I then should be, Reflecting thee, and only thee! Or were I, love, the robe which flows O'er every charm that secret glows, In many a lucid fold to swim, And cling and grow to every limb! Oh! could I, as the streamlet's wave, Thy warmly-mellowing beauties lave, Or float as perfume on thine hair,

[Pg 101]

[Pg 102]

ODE XVII.

NOW the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly, Bring me wine in brimming urns, Cool my lip, it burns, it burns! Sunn'd 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;

[Pg 105]

[Pg 106]

ODE XVIII.

IF hoarded gold possess'd a power To lengthen life's too fleeting hour, And purchase from the land of death A little span, a moment's breath, How I would love the precious ore! And every day should swell my store; That when the Fates would send their minion, To waft me off on shadowy pinion, I might some hours of life obtain, And bribe him back to hell again. But, since we ne'er can charm away The mandate of that awful day, Why do we vainly weep at fate, And sigh for life's uncertain date? The light of gold can ne'er illume The dreary midnight of the tomb! And why should I then pant for treasures?

[Pg 109]

[Pg 110]

ODE XIX.

WHEN my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep. Talk of monarchs! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men; Careless, o'er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king; Gives me wealthy Crœsus' store, Can I, can I wish for more? On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining, While my soul dilates with glee, What are kings and crowns to me?

[Pg 113]

[Pg 114]

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!

[Pg 117]

[Pg 118]

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?

[Pg 121]

[Pg 122]

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,

[Pg 125]

[Pg 129]

[Pg 130]

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!

[Pg 133]

[Pg 134]

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,

[Pg 137]

[Pg 138]

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 Phœnician 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!

[Pg 141]

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 [Pg 142] 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

[Pg 145]

[Pg 146]

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

[Pg 149]

[Pg 150]

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,

[Pg 153]

[Pg 157]

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, [Pg 158] 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;

[Pg 161]

[Pg 162]

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

[Pg 165]

[Pg 166]

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!

[Pg 169]

[Pg 170]

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;

[Pg 173]

[Pg 174]

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?

[Pg 177]

[Pg 178]

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.

[Pg 181]

[Pg 182]

ODE XXXV.