Ode Xlvi.[1]

Behold, the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her scented 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 cultured field, and winding stream, Are freshly glittering in 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.

The fastidious affectation of some commentators has denounced this ode as spurious. Degen pronounces the four last lines to be the patch-work of some miserable versificator, and Brunck condemns the whole ode. It appears to me, on the contrary, to be elegantly graphical: full of delicate expressions and luxuriant imagery.

ODE XLVII.

'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet can I 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 called to wind the dance's clue, Then shalt thou see 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 field of arms; While my inglorious, placid soul Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl. Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, And bathe me in its brimming wave. For though my fading years decay, Though manhood's prime hath past away, Like old Silenus, sire divine, With blushes borrowed from my wine. I'll wanton mid the dancing train, And live my follies o'er again!

Phornutus assigns as a reason for the consecration of the thyrsus to Bacchus, that inebriety often renders the support of a stick very necessary.

ODE XLVIII.

When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lulled 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 Croesus' store, Can I, can I wish for more? On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining, While my soul expands with glee, What are kings and crowns to me? If before my feet they lay, I would spurn them all away; Arm ye, arm ye, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight; But let me, my budding vine! Spill no other blood than thine. Yonder brimming goblet see, That alone shall vanquish me-- Who think it better, wiser far To fall in banquet than in war,

"The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus [says Montfaucon], because he formerly lay hid under that tree, or as others will have it, because its leaves resemble those of the vine." Other reasons for its consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, Barnes, etc.

ODE XLIX.

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 my 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, Calling up round me visions known To lovers of the bowl alone.

Sing, sing of love, let music's sound In melting cadence float around, While, my young Venus, thou and I Responsive to its murmurs sigh. Then, waking from our blissful trance, Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.