She gave thee beauty--mightier far Than all the pomp and power of war.
Nor steel, nor fire itself hath power Like woman, in her conquering hour.
Be thou but fair, mankind adore thee, Smile, and a world is weak before thee![1]
[1] Longepierre"s remark here is ingenious; "The Romans," says he, "were so convinced of the power of beauty, that they used a word implying strength in the place of the epithet beautiful".
ODE XXV.
Once in each revolving year, Gentle bird! we find thee here.
When Nature wears her summer-vest, Thou comest to weave thy simple nest; But when the chilling winter lowers.
Again thou seekest the genial bowers Of Memphis, or the sh.o.r.es of Nile, Where sunny hours for ever smile.
And thus thy pinion rests and roves,-- Alas! unlike the swarm of Loves, That brood within this hapless breast, And never, never change their nest!
Still every year, and all the year, They fix their fated dwelling here; And some their infant plumage try, And on a tender winglet fly; While in the sh.e.l.l, impregned with fires, Still lurk a thousand more desires; Some from their tiny prisons peeping, And some in formless embryo sleeping.
Thus peopled, like the vernal groves, My breast resounds, with warbling Loves; One urchin imps the other"s feather, Then twin-desires they wing together, And fast as they thus take their flight, Still other urchins spring to light.
But is there then no kindly art, To chase these Cupids from my heart; Ah, no! I fear, in sadness fear, They will for ever nestle here!
ODE XXVI.
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, That drank the current of my heart; Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed, Have made this vanquished bosom bleed; No--"twas from eyes of liquid blue, A host of quivered Cupids flew;[1]
And now my heart all bleeding lies Beneath that army of the eyes!
[1] The poets abound with conceits on the archery of the eyes, but few have turned the thought so naturally as Anacreon. Ronsard gives to the eyes of his mistress _un pet.i.t camp d"amours_.
ODE XXVII.
We read the flying courser"s name Upon his side, in marks of flame; And, by their turbaned brows alone, The warriors of the East are known.
But in the lover"s glowing eyes, The inlet to his bosom lies; Through them we see the small faint mark, Where Love has dropt his burning spark!
ODE XXVIII.
As, by his Lemnian forge"s flame, The husband of the Paphian dame Moulded the glowing steel, to form Arrows for Cupid, thrilling warm; And Venus, as he plied his art, Shed honey round each new-made dart, While Love, at hand, to finish all, Tipped every arrow"s point with gall; It chanced the Lord of Battles came To visit that deep cave of flame.
"Twas from the ranks of war he rushed, His spear with many a life-drop blushed; He saw the fiery darts, and smiled Contemptuous at the archer-child.
"What!" said the urchin, "dost thou smile?
Here, hold this little dart awhile, And thou wilt find, though swift of flight, My bolts are not so feathery light."
Mars took the shaft--and, oh, thy look, Sweet Venus, when the shaft he took!-- Sighing, he felt the urchin"s art, And cried, in agony of heart, "It is not light--I sink with pain!
Take--take thy arrow back again."
"No," said the child, "it must not be; That little dart was made for thee!"
ODE XXIX.
Yes--loving is a painful thrill, And not to love more painful still But oh, it is the worst of pain, To love and not be loved again!
Affection now has fled from earth, Nor fire of genius, n.o.ble birth, Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile, From beauty"s cheek one favoring smile.
Gold is the woman"s only theme, Gold is the woman"s only dream.
Oh! never be that wretch forgiven-- Forgive him not, indignant heaven!
Whose grovelling eyes could first adore, Whose heart could pant for sordid ore.
Since that devoted thirst began, Man has forgot to feel for man; The pulse of social life is dead, And all its fonder feelings fled!
War too has sullied Nature"s charms, For gold provokes the world to arms; And oh! the worst of all its arts, It renders asunder loving hearts.
ODE x.x.x.[1]
"Twas in a mocking dream of night-- I fancied I had wings as light As a young birds, and flew as fleet; While Love, around whose beauteous feet, I knew not why, hung chains of lead, Pursued me, as I trembling fled; And, strange to say, as swift as thought, Spite of my pinions, I was caught!
What does the wanton Fancy mean By such a strange, illusive scene?
I fear she whispers to my breast, That you, sweet maid, have stolen its rest; That though my fancy, for a while, Hath hung on many a woman"s smile, I soon dissolved each pa.s.sing vow, And ne"er was caught by love till now!
[1] Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet married very late in life. But I see nothing in the ode which alludes to matrimony, except it be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I agree in the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure to marry.