Poetical Works

Anacreon, Ode Ninth

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Lovely courier of the sky!

Whence and whither dost thou fly?

Scattering, as thy pinions play,

Liquid fragrance all the way;

Is it business? is it love?

Tell me, tell me, gentle dove!

Soft Anacreon's vows I bear,

Vows to Myrtal* the fair;

Graced with all that charms the heart,

Blushing nature, smiling art. 10

Venus, courted by an ode,

On the bard her dove bestow'd:

Vested with a master's right,

Now Anacreon rules my flight;

His the letters that you see,

Weighty charge, consign'd to me:

Think not yet my service hard,

Joyless task without reward;

Smiling at my master's gates,

Freedom my return awaits; 20

But the liberal grant in vain

Tempts me to be wild again.

Can a prudent dove decline

Blissful bondage such as mine?

Over hills and fields to roam,

Fortune's guest without a home;

Under leaves to hide one's head,

Slightly shelter'd, coarsely fed:

Now my better lot bestows

Sweet repast, and soft repose: 30

Now the generous bowl I sip,

As it leaves Anacreon's lip:

Void of care and free from dread,

From his fingers snatch his bread;

Then with luscious plenty gay,

Round his chamber dance and play;

Or from wine as courage springs,

O'er his face extend my wings;

And when feast and frolic tire,

Drop asleep upon his lyre. 40

This is all, be quick and go,

More than all thou canst not know;

Let me now my pinions ply,

I have chatter'd like a pye.

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