Ode Xi.[1]

"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 past my way: "Sir," (he answered, and the while Answered all in Doric style,) "Take it, for a trifle take it; 'Twas not I who dared to make it; No, believe me, 'twas not I; Oh, it has cost me many a sigh, And I can no longer keep Little Gods, who murder sleep!" "Here, then, here," (I said with joy,) "Here is silver for the boy: He shall be my bosom guest, Idol of my pious breast!"

Now, young Love, I have thee mine, Warm me with that torch of thine; Make me feel as I have felt, Or thy waxen frame shall melt: I must burn with warm desire, Or thou, my boy--in yonder fire.

It is difficult to preserve with any grace the narrative simplicity of this ode, and the humor of the turn with which it concludes. I feel, indeed, that the translation must appear vapid, if not ludicrous, to an English reader.

From this Longepierre conjectures, that, whatever Anacreon might say, he felt sometimes the inconveniences of old age, and here solicits from the power of Love a warmth which he could no longer expect from Nature.

ODE XII.

They tell how Atys, wild with love, Roams the mount and haunted grove; Cvbele's name he howls around, The gloomy blast returns the sound! Oft too, by Claros' hallowed spring, The votaries of the laurelled king Quaff the inspiring, magic stream, And rave in wild, prophetic dream. But frenzied dreams are not for me, Great Bacchus is my deity! Full of mirth, and full of him, While floating odors round me swim, While mantling bowls are full supplied, And you sit blushing by my side, I will be mad and raving too-- Mad, my girl, with love for you!

There are many contradictory stories of the loves of Cybele and Atys. It is certain that he was mutilated, but whether by his own fury, or Cybele's jealousy, is a point upon which authors are not agreed.

This fountain was in a grove, consecrated to Apollo, and situated between Colophon and Lebedos, in Ionia. The god had an oracle there.

ODE XIII.

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 resigned; And so repelled the tender lure, And hoped my heart would 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 summoned me to yield, Or meet him on the martial field. And what did I unthinking do? I took to arms, undaunted, too; Assumed the corslet, shield, and spear, And, like Pelides, smiled at fear.

Then (hear it, All ye powers above!) I fought with Love! I fought with Love! And now his arrows all were shed, And I had just in terror fled-- When, heaving an indignant sigh, To see me thus unwounded fly, And, having now no other dart, He shot himself into my heart! My heart--alas the luckless day! Received the God, and died away. Farewell, farewell, my faithless shield! Thy lord at length is forced to yield. Vain, vain, is every outward care, The foe's within, and triumphs there.

Dryden has parodied this thought in the following extravagant lines:-- ----I'm all o'er Love; Nay, I am Love, Love shot, and shot so fast, He shot himself into my breast at last.