Ode Xliv.[1]

Buds of roses, virgin flowers, Culled 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. Even the Gods, who walk the sky, Are amorous of thy scented sigh. Cupid, too, in Paphian shades, His hair with rosy fillets braids, When with the blushing sister Graces, The wanton winding dance he traces. Then bring me, showers of roses bring, And shed them o'er me while I sing. Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine, Wreathing my brow with rose and vine, I lead some bright nymph through the dance, Commingling soul with every glance!

This spirited poem is a eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty- fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes refers us, the rose is fancifully styled "the eye of flowers;" and the same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favors of the Muse "the roses of the Pleria."

ODE XLV.

Within this goblet, rich and deep, I cradle all my woes to sleep. Why should we breathe the sigh of fear, Or pour the unavailing tear? For death will never heed the sigh, Nor soften at the tearful eye; And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep, Must all alike be sealed in sleep. Then let us never vainly stray, In search of thorns, from pleasure's way; But wisely quaff the rosy wave, Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave; And in the goblet, rich and deep, Cradle our crying woes to sleep.