"And dost thou smile?" said little Love;
“Take this dart, and thou may'st prove,
"That though they pass the breeze's flight,
"My bolts are not so feathery light."
He took the shaft --and, oh! thy look,
Sweet Venus! when the shaft he took-
He sigh'd, and felt the urchin's art;
He sigh'd, in agony of heart,
"It is not light-I die with pain!
"Take-take thy arrow back again.”
"No," said the child," it must not be,
"That little dart was made for thee!"
YES-loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still;
Yes-loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still; etc.] Monsieur Menage, in the following Anacreontic, enforces the necessity of loving:
Περι τε δειν φιλησ
Προς Πετρον Δανιηλα Υεττον.
Μεγα θαύμα των αοιδών
Χαριτων θαλος Ύεστε,
But surely 'tis the worst of pain,
To love and not be loved again!
Φιλεωμεν ω ἑταιρε.
Φίλεησαν οι σοφισαι.
Φιλέησε σεμνος ανής,
Το τέκνον το Σωφρονισκός
Σοφίης πατηρ απάσης.
Τι δ' ανευ γενοιτ' Έρωτος ;
Ακονη μεν εςι ψυχής. *
Πτερύγεσσιν εις Ολυμπον
Κατακείμενος αναιρεί.
Βραδιας τετηγμένοισι
Βελεεσις εξαγειρεί
Πυρι λαμπαδος φαεινω
Ρυπαρώτερος καθαιρεί.
Φιλέωμεν εν ὙΕΤΤΕ,
Φιλέωμεν ω ἑταιρε.
Αδίκως δε λοιδορεντι
Αγιος ερωτας ημών
Κακον εύξομαι το μένον
Ίνα μη δύναιτ' εκείνος
Φιλεειν τε και φιλεισθαι.
TO PETER DANIEL HUETT.
Thou! of tuneful bards the first,
Thou ! by all the Graces nursed ;
*This line is borrowed from an epigram by Alpheus of Mitylene.
Menage, I think, says somewhere, that he was the first who produced this epigram to the world.
Affection now has fled from earth,
Nor fire of genius, light of birth,
Nor heavenly virtue, can beguile
From beauty's cheek one favouring smile.
Friend! each other friend above,
Come with me, and learn to love.
Loving is a simple lore,
Graver men have learn'd before;
Nay, the boast of former ages,
Wisest of the wisest sages,
Sophroniscus' prudent son,
Was by Love's illusion won.
Oh! how heavy life would move,
If we knew not how to love!
Love's a whetstone to the mind;
Thus 'tis pointed, thus refined.
When the soul dejected lies,
Love can waft it to the skies;
When in languor sleeps the heart,
Love can wake it with his dart;
When the mind is dull and dark,
Love can light it with his spark!
Come, oh! come then, let us haste
All the bliss of love to taste;
Let us love both night and day,
Let us love our lives away!
And when hearts, from loving free
(If indeed such hearts there be),
Frown upon our gentle flame,
And the sweet delusion blame;
This shall be my only curse,
(Could I, could I wish them worse?)
May they ne'er the rapture prove,
Of the smile from lips we love!
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 art,
I feel it breaks the lover's heart!
'Twas in an airy dream of night,
I fancied, that I wing'd my flight
* Barnes imagines from this allegory, that our poet married very late in life. I do not perceive any thing in the ode which seems to allude to matrimony, except it be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I must confess that I agree in the opinion of Madame Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure to marry.
On pinions fleeter than the wind,
While little Love, whose feet were twined
(I know not why) with chains of lead,
Pursued me as I trembling fled;
Pursued and could I e'er have thought?-
Swift as the moment I was caught!
What does the wanton Fancy mean
By such a strange, illusive scene?
I fear she whispers to my breast,
That you, my girl, have stolen my rest;
That though my fancy, for a while,
Has hung on many a woman's smile,
I soon dissolved the passing vow,
And ne'er was caught by Love till now!
ARM'D with hyacinthine rod
(Arms enough for such a god),
* The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest impressions of love. Longepierre has quoted an ancient epigram (I do not know where he found it), which has some similitude to this ode:
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