ODE LXV.[1]
Like some wanton filly sporting, Maid Of Thrace, thou flyest my courting.
Wanton filly! tell me why Thou trip"st away, with scornful eye, And seem"st to think my doating heart Is novice in the bridling art?
Believe me, girl, it is not so; Thou"lt find this skilful hand can throw The reins around that tender form, However wild, however warm.
Yes--trust me I can tame thy force, And turn and wind thee in the course.
Though, wasting now thy careless hours, Thou sport amid the herbs and flowers, Soon shalt thou feel the rein"s control, And tremble at the wished-for goal!
[1] This ode, which is addressed to some Thracian girl, exists in Heraclides, and has been imitated very frequently by Horace, as all the annotators have remarked. Madame Dacier rejects the allegory, which runs so obviously through the poem, and supposes it to have been addressed to a young mare belonging to Polycrates.
Pierius, in the fourth book of his "Hieroglyphics," cites this ode, and informs us that the horse was the hieroglyphical emblem of pride.
ODE LXVI.[1]
To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine, Fairest of all that fairest shine; To thee, who rulest with darts of fire This world of mortals, young Desire!
And oh! thou nuptial Power, to thee Who bearest of life the guardian key, Breathing my soul in fervent praise, And weaving wild my votive lays, For thee, O Queen! I wake the lyre, For thee, thou blushing young Desire, And oh! for thee, thou nuptial Power, Come, and illume this genial hour.
Look on thy bride, too happy boy, And while thy lambent glance of joy Plays over all her blushing charms, Delay not, s.n.a.t.c.h her to thine arms, Before the lovely, trembling prey, Like a young birdling, wing away!
Turn, Stratocles, too happy youth, Dear to the Queen of amorous truth, And dear to her, whose yielding zone Will soon resign her all thine own.
Turn to Myrilla, turn thine eye, Breathe to Myrilla, breathe thy sigh.
To those bewitching beauties turn; For thee they blush, for thee they burn.
Not more the rose, the queen of flowers, Outblushes all the bloom of bowers Than she unrivalled grace discloses, The sweetest rose, where all are roses.
Oh! may the sun, benignant, shed His blandest influence o"er thy bed; And foster there an infant tree, To bloom like her, and tower like thee!
[1] This ode is introduced in the Romance of Theodorus Prodromus, and is that kind of epithalamium which was sung like a scolium at the nuptial banquet.
ODE LXVII.
Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn The wealth of Amalthea"s horn; Nor should I ask to call the throne Of the Tartessian prince my own;[1]
To totter through his train of years, The victim of declining fears.
One little hour of joy to me Is worth a dull eternity!
[1] He here alludes to Arganthonius, who lived, according to Lucian, an hundred and fifty years; and reigned, according to Herodotus, eighty.
ODE LXVIII.
Now Neptune"s month our sky deforms, The angry night-cloud teems with storms; And savage winds, infuriate driven, Fly howling in the face of heaven!
Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom With roseate rays of wine illume: And while our wreaths of parsley spread Their fadeless foliage round our head, Let"s hymn the almighty power of wine, And shed libations on his shrine!
ODE LXIX.
They wove the lotus band to deck And fan with pensile wreath each neck; And every guest, to shade his head, Three little fragrant chaplets spread;[1]
And one was of the Egyptian leaf, The rest were roses, fair and brief: While from a golden vase profound, To all on flowery beds around, A Hebe, of celestial shape, Poured the rich droppings of the grape!
[1] Longepierre, to give an idea of the luxurious estimation in which garlands were held by the ancients, relates an anecdote of a courtezan, who, in order to gratify three lovers, without leaving cause for Jealousy with any of them, gave a kiss to one, let the other drink after her, and put a garland on the brow of the third; so that each was satisfied with his favor, and flattered himself with the preference.
ODE LXX.
A broken cake, with honey sweet, Is all my spare and simple treat: And while a generous bowl I crown To float my little banquet down, I take the soft, the amorous lyre, And sing of love"s delicious fire: In mirthful measures warm and free, I sing, dear maid, and sing for thee!
ODE LXXI.
With twenty chords my lyre is hung, And while I wake them all for thee, Thou, O maiden, wild and young, Disportest in airy levity.