Classic Poem

Not for me the song elated
Of armed hosts and crimson strife,
By the tender mother hated,
Hated by the gentle wife.
Not for me,—though nature forces,
With her charms, my heart to glow,—
Not for me to seek the sources
Whence her hidden wonders flow?
Placid mind and frolic humour
Have the good gods given to me,
And beneath my mask of gloom are
Laughing looks of mirth and glee.
I wish of Doris and of Phillis
To sing a strain devoid of art
(Natural as the mountain rill is,
Pleasing to the gentle heart).
Ebon glances, golden tresses,
Gentle loves and coy disdain,
Pensive feelings, soft caresses,
All can study without pain!
Lovely ladies, ye who listen
To my verses' varied tone,
If your eyes approving glisten,
'Tis for that I sing alone.
Let him treasure, justly jealous,
That majestic trump of yore,
He who sung the chiefs of Hellas,
Buried by the Zanthian shore;
Neither do I seek alliance
With such minds as are not loth
To unite sweet song and science,
Sacrificing one or both!
All on which my fond heart lingers,
All to which my hopes aspire,
Is to tune with skilful fingers
Sweet Anacreon's simple lyre!
Dulcet notes and sportive measures
Hover o'er each trembling string,
All the joys and all the pleasures
That fron Love and Bacchus spring
May I, too, discharge my duty,
May I sing a worthy chant,
Full of grace and full of beauty,
As the gods alone can grant!
So that, never dim or dreary,
May my easy line be fraught,
Or the mind grow dull and weary
With its weight of misty thought.
Fancy then may build her dwelling,
Tranquil daughter of the brain!—
In the gentle fount-like welling
Of my soft and facile strain.
Ladies, heaven of my devotion,
Do not think I wish to claim,
O'er the mountain or the ocean,
Fame or honour for my name.
For mighty bards and heroes spring
Wreaths and crowns, and laurels bright:
Ladies, if I write or sing,
'Tis for you I sing and write!