Transcriptions from the " Anacreontea "
I. OF HIS LYRE; THAT IT WILL PLAY ONLY OF LOVE
I fain would sing of Cadmus king,
And fain of Atrean banqueting;
But still the harp through every string
Doth echo only love —
I brake the chord that erewhile sent
That note, and changed the instrument;
And how Alcides' labours went
I sang with fire, — but still the lyre
Gave back the word of Love.
So farewell all heroical
Rare spirits!, for the lyre withal
Can sound but only love.
II. TO HIS COMRADES, TO JUSTIFY HIMSELF IN DRINKING
The earth drinks herself dark with the fast-falling rain, —
And the roots of the trees drink her moisture again,
And the sea drinks the winds, till she welters aloud —
And the sun drinks the sea, till he sets in a cloud,
And the moon drinks the sun, till her circle is plain.
Then o wherefore, my friends, are ye angry and curst,
Because I too would drink, while the world is athirst?
III. BATHYLLUS' BEAUTY
In this shadow of Bathyllus
I will sit. The tree is fair
And hath shaken its smooth hair
From a branch of gentle bowing,
And Persuasion's fount doth fill us
With a murmur, near him flowing.
Who then, marking what is felt here,
Would pass by so sweet a shelter?
IV. TO HIMSELF, TO DROWN HIS CARES
When I drink the red red wine
All my cares are sleeping —
What to me are thoughts that pine?
What is moan and weeping?
I must die, whate'er I choose —
But why should life be turned from use?
Drink we then the red red wine
Bacchus hath in keeping!
While we drink it, by that sign,
All our cares are sleeping.
V. WINE THE POOR MAN'S WEALTH
Where Bacchus enters bright and bold
The Cares are sleeping in a throng!
I seem to hold all Croesus' gold
And choose to lift a noble song!
I lie on ground, with ivy crowned —
On all things with my soul I tread.
Take wines! For me, I drink instead!
So fetch the goblet, boy of mine,
For it is better, by this wine
To be dead drunk than dead.
VI. CUPID BEAUTY'S SLAVE
O Love, the Muses bound him
And having brightly crowned him
They gave him up for Beauty's slave.
Now Cytherea searches
With ransoms to repurchase
And loose the chain of Love the slave.
But grant a freeing finger,
He will not go but linger —
For Love hath learnt to be a slave.
VII. THE NEST OF LOVE
Thou indeed, little swallow,
A sweet yearly comer,
Art building a hollow
New nest every summer —
And then dost depart
Where no gazing can follow
Past Memphis, down Nile!
But Love all the while
Through the cold winter-weeks
Builds his nest in my heart.
As one passion takes flight
Another, oh swallow,
Is an egg warm and white,
And another is callow.
And all day and all night
Chirp the large gaping beaks!
And the loves who are older
Help the young and the poor loves,
And the young loves grown bolder
Increase as before loves —
Why what can be done?
If a noise comes from one,
Can I bear all this rout of a hundred and more loves?
VIII. TO A LADY, WITH AN OLD MAN'S LOVE-GIFT
Fly me not, fair creature,
Though my locks are grey!
Nor my love-vows cast away,
For thy flower of nature!
Let these garlands make thee sage!
Twining as the truth is,
Roses red as youth is,
With lilies white as age.
Sweetest, do not fly me
Though my hair is grey,
Nor my love deny me
Though the flower of youthhood may
Bloom within thee fresh today!
Mark the garlands in our sight!
How with scarlet roses they
Entwine the lilies white.
IX. TO THE GRASSHOPPER
Blessing on thee, Grasshopper,
When upon the treetops fair
Thou dost sing as blithe as king
Drinking softly the small dew! —
For thine be all things which be new —
All things seen in open meadows,
All things brought from forest shadows!
And shepherds call thee sweetest one
Who dost harm in naught to none!
And mortals call thee precious comer,
And sweet prophet of the summer!
While the Muses do approve thee,
And their Phoebus, who doth love thee,
Did that fluted singing make thee!
Earthborn, wise . . . of slumberous fashion . . .
But sans body, blood, and passion,
For a god we almost take thee!
X. AGE AND MIRTH
I love to see a glad old man!
I love to see a young one dance —
Or even an old one, if he can.
Let him! Though white hairs perchance
Round his wrinkled brows be hung,
His foot shall prove his soul still young.
XI. THE POWER OF BEAUTY
Horns to bulls, gave nature,
Likewise hooves to horses:
Hares their footed swiftness,
Lions — teeth wide-yawning:
To the fishes — swimming,
To the birds their plume-play.
Women — no more had she!
What then? She gives Beauty.
I fain would sing of Cadmus king,
And fain of Atrean banqueting;
But still the harp through every string
Doth echo only love —
I brake the chord that erewhile sent
That note, and changed the instrument;
And how Alcides' labours went
I sang with fire, — but still the lyre
Gave back the word of Love.
So farewell all heroical
Rare spirits!, for the lyre withal
Can sound but only love.
II. TO HIS COMRADES, TO JUSTIFY HIMSELF IN DRINKING
The earth drinks herself dark with the fast-falling rain, —
And the roots of the trees drink her moisture again,
And the sea drinks the winds, till she welters aloud —
And the sun drinks the sea, till he sets in a cloud,
And the moon drinks the sun, till her circle is plain.
Then o wherefore, my friends, are ye angry and curst,
Because I too would drink, while the world is athirst?
III. BATHYLLUS' BEAUTY
In this shadow of Bathyllus
I will sit. The tree is fair
And hath shaken its smooth hair
From a branch of gentle bowing,
And Persuasion's fount doth fill us
With a murmur, near him flowing.
Who then, marking what is felt here,
Would pass by so sweet a shelter?
IV. TO HIMSELF, TO DROWN HIS CARES
When I drink the red red wine
All my cares are sleeping —
What to me are thoughts that pine?
What is moan and weeping?
I must die, whate'er I choose —
But why should life be turned from use?
Drink we then the red red wine
Bacchus hath in keeping!
While we drink it, by that sign,
All our cares are sleeping.
V. WINE THE POOR MAN'S WEALTH
Where Bacchus enters bright and bold
The Cares are sleeping in a throng!
I seem to hold all Croesus' gold
And choose to lift a noble song!
I lie on ground, with ivy crowned —
On all things with my soul I tread.
Take wines! For me, I drink instead!
So fetch the goblet, boy of mine,
For it is better, by this wine
To be dead drunk than dead.
VI. CUPID BEAUTY'S SLAVE
O Love, the Muses bound him
And having brightly crowned him
They gave him up for Beauty's slave.
Now Cytherea searches
With ransoms to repurchase
And loose the chain of Love the slave.
But grant a freeing finger,
He will not go but linger —
For Love hath learnt to be a slave.
VII. THE NEST OF LOVE
Thou indeed, little swallow,
A sweet yearly comer,
Art building a hollow
New nest every summer —
And then dost depart
Where no gazing can follow
Past Memphis, down Nile!
But Love all the while
Through the cold winter-weeks
Builds his nest in my heart.
As one passion takes flight
Another, oh swallow,
Is an egg warm and white,
And another is callow.
And all day and all night
Chirp the large gaping beaks!
And the loves who are older
Help the young and the poor loves,
And the young loves grown bolder
Increase as before loves —
Why what can be done?
If a noise comes from one,
Can I bear all this rout of a hundred and more loves?
VIII. TO A LADY, WITH AN OLD MAN'S LOVE-GIFT
Fly me not, fair creature,
Though my locks are grey!
Nor my love-vows cast away,
For thy flower of nature!
Let these garlands make thee sage!
Twining as the truth is,
Roses red as youth is,
With lilies white as age.
Sweetest, do not fly me
Though my hair is grey,
Nor my love deny me
Though the flower of youthhood may
Bloom within thee fresh today!
Mark the garlands in our sight!
How with scarlet roses they
Entwine the lilies white.
IX. TO THE GRASSHOPPER
Blessing on thee, Grasshopper,
When upon the treetops fair
Thou dost sing as blithe as king
Drinking softly the small dew! —
For thine be all things which be new —
All things seen in open meadows,
All things brought from forest shadows!
And shepherds call thee sweetest one
Who dost harm in naught to none!
And mortals call thee precious comer,
And sweet prophet of the summer!
While the Muses do approve thee,
And their Phoebus, who doth love thee,
Did that fluted singing make thee!
Earthborn, wise . . . of slumberous fashion . . .
But sans body, blood, and passion,
For a god we almost take thee!
X. AGE AND MIRTH
I love to see a glad old man!
I love to see a young one dance —
Or even an old one, if he can.
Let him! Though white hairs perchance
Round his wrinkled brows be hung,
His foot shall prove his soul still young.
XI. THE POWER OF BEAUTY
Horns to bulls, gave nature,
Likewise hooves to horses:
Hares their footed swiftness,
Lions — teeth wide-yawning:
To the fishes — swimming,
To the birds their plume-play.
Women — no more had she!
What then? She gives Beauty.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.