English

ODE V.

Sculptor , wouldst thou glad my soul,
Grave for me an ample bowl,
Worthy to shine in hall or bower,
When spring-time brings the reveller's hour.
Grave it with themes of chaste design,
Fit for a simple board like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites
In which religious zeal delights;
Nor any tale of tragic fate
Which History shudders to relate.
No — cull thy fancies from above,
Themes of heaven and themes of love.
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy,

ODE IV.

Vulcan ! hear your glorious task;
I did not from your labors ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,
For war was ne'er a sport of mine.
No — let me have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul;
But mind that, o'er its simple frame
No mimic constellations flame;
Nor grave upon the swelling side,
Orion, scowling o'er the tide.

I care not for the glittering wain,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But let the vine luxuriant roll

ODE III.

Listen to the Muse's lyre,
Master of the pencil's fire!
Sketched in painting's bold display,
Many a city first portray;
Many a city, revelling free,
Full of loose festivity.
Picture then a rosy train,
Bacchants straying o'er the plain;
Piping, as they roam along,
Roundelay or shepherd-song.
Paint me next, if painting may
Such a theme as this portray,
All the earthly heaven of love
These delighted mortals prove.

ODE II.

Give me the harp of epic song,
Which Homer's finger thrilled along;
But tear away the sanguine string.
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal right,
I'm monarch of the board to-night;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I.
And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch the elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
Great Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,

ODE I

I saw the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure;
'Twas in a vision of the night,
He beamed upon my wondering sight.
I heard his voice, and warmly prest
The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery dye,
But beauty sparkled in his eye;
Sparkled in his eyes of fire,
Through the mist of soft desire.
His lip exhaled, when'er he sighed,
The fragrance of the racy tide;
And, as with weak and reeling feet
He came my cordial kiss to meet,
An infant, of the Cyprian band,

Truth.

" What is truth, " was asked of old,
By one Pilate, Pontius.
Where is truth, we now are told:
'Tis in the Unconscious.

What is this, if not the well
Wherein truth lies hidden?
From which she (as Freudians tell)
Issues forth unbidden?

Down you let your bucket fly,
Seeking inspiration,
And the bucket comes up dry —

So to thy home sweeps down unconquerable
Our iron chariot of the prophet's dream,
Fire-fledged and clothed in cloud and wreathed with steam,
Flashed like a poet's thought through all — cleft hill.
Rent rock and rolling flood and fiery sand,
Laden with Life's humanities, not the brand
Of widow-making war,
To blast thy fields afar,

EX-PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF MEXICO

Open thy storm-dark doors, dear Northern Land,
Star-diademed, pale Priestess of the free,
Walled round by wind and water and that grey sea
Whose morning psalm salutes his Pilgrims' strand,
O thou to whom all great things thought and done
Are dear, all fights for Freedom lost or won,
Queen of the earth's free states,

Because this curse is on the dawn, to yield
her secrecy distill'd of nuptial tears,
and day dismantles, casual, nor reveres
whate'er august our brooding dream'd reveal'd;

because that night to whom we next appeal'd,
no more gestation of inviolate spheres,
shameless, is mimic of the day, nor fears
the scant occurrence of her stars repeal'd:

Therefore, if never in some awful heart
a gather'd peace, impregnable, apart,
cherish us in that shrine of steadfast fire,

be these alone our care, excluding hence

THE WOMB OF NIGHT

How long delays the miracle blossoming,
vermeil and gold, soft fire, flush of the dark,
aurora, and ravish of night's mother ark
still hallow'd 'neath her present cherishing!

The sides of night are anguish'd with this thing,
unnatural, a fear, a rending: hark,
dim mutterings; the gulfs are strain'd and stark:
dark stress, delay, distress, and vanishing.

O womb, dark womb that darkenest, what art
shall set thee free, and us? or must our heart