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Thee the great Apollo bless'd
With a voice above the rest.
Thou from wasting age art free,
Time has nought to do with thee.
Skilful creature, child of song,
Though to earth thou dost belong,1
Free from Nature's woes and pains,
Free from flesh, or blood-fill'd veins,2
Happy thing! thou seem'st to me
Almost a little god to be!

ODE XLIV.—THE DREAM.3

I DREAM'D, that over earth and sky,
Possess'd with wings, I seem'd to fly;

1 The ancient Athenians compared themselves to these insects, either on account of their skill in music, or because like them they were descended from the earth. They likewise wore golden ornaments in their hair, resembling grasshoppers. The Chinese ladies still wear fastened to their heads by springs small golden figures of a bird, the wings of which flutter with the slightest motion.

2 Homer represents the gods as being free from blood; and, speaking of Venus being wounded, he says,

From the clear vein a stream immortal flow'd,
Such stream as issues from a wounded god;
Pure emanation! uncorrupted flood!
Unlike our gross, diseased, terrestrial blood.
(For not the bread of man their life sustains,
Nor wine's inflaming juice supplies their veins.)

Pope's Homer, book v.

3 Madame Dacier says that this is one of the finest and most gallant odes of antiquity, and if she for whom it was composed was as beautiful, all Greece could produce nothing more charming. Its meaning seems to be simply this, that passion suddenly conceived is generally transient and fleeting; but love founded on esteem and regulated by reason, though slow in its approaches, and imperceptible in its growth, makes an impression on the heart at once permanent and indelible.

While Love pursued with swiftest pace,
And soon o'ertook me in the chase;
Though at his little feet were hung
Large leaden weights, that loosely swung.
'What can this vision mean?' I cried;
'It surely may be thus applied,-
That I, who once could freely rove
Through all the flowery paths of love,
Who laugh'd at lovers and their pains,
Am fetter'd now with stronger chains,'

ODE XLV.-CUPID'S DARTS.

THE rugged mate of love's soft queen
Was at the Lemnian forges seen ;1
And while their fires intensely glow,
Was forging darts for Cupid's bow;
Sharp-pointed shafts of polish'd steel,
Which human hearts so keenly feel.
The gentle Venus, for her part,
In honey dipp'd each finish'd dart ;
But cruel Cupid took them all,
And steep'd their barbed points in gall.
Returning from the battle rude,

The mighty Mars their bus'ness view'd;

1 Lemnos was an island in the Egean sea, sacred to Vul can, who, in the first book of the Iliad, gives an account o Jupiter's throwing him from heaven, and his fall on tha island.

Once in your cause I felt his matchless might,

Hurl'd headlong downward from th' ethereal height;
Toss'd all the day in rapid circles round;
Nor till the sun descended touch'd the ground:
Breathless I fell, in giddy motion lost;

The Sinthians raised me on the Lemnian coast.

Pope's Homer.

And, leaning on his massy spear,1
'What use,' he cried, with scornful sneer,
'These puny darts—these trifling toys-
Mere playthings-only fit for boys?'
'Hold!' Cupid cries, 'here's one-try this,
You'll find it not so much amiss;

2

'Tis strongly made; and, for its size,
Its weight will cause you much surprise.'
The god received it. Venus tried
To check her laugh, and turn'd aside;
But Mars, with sudden grief possess'd,"
Cried, groaning from his inmost breast,
'This little shaft gives wondrous pain;
Here-take it-take it back again.'
'Nay, Mars, I give it with good will;
Pray keep the pretty plaything still.'

ODE XLVI.-THE POWER OF GOLD.

A THOUSAND pains we lovers prove,3
Still what were life devoid of love?

1 The proportions of the spear and arrow are finely contrasted. The tiny weapon makes the deeper wound.

2 This sentiment is extremely beautiful; intimating that one cannot even touch the darts of Cupid with safety. Moschus concludes his first idyllium with a similar thought: Perhaps he'll say, 'Alas! no harm I know, Here take my darts, my arrows, and my bow.' Ah! touch them not, fallacious is his aim, His darts, his arrows, all are tipt with flame.-Fawkes.

3 Oh, love! what is it in this world of ours

Which makes it fatal to be loved? Ah! why
With cypress branches hast thou wreath'd thy bowers,
And made thy best interpreter a sigh?

As those who doat on odors pluck the flowers,
And place them on their breast-but place to die.
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish.

But ah! what woe, when doom'd to mourn
The love that never meets return!
In vain we boast of noble birth,
And vain is wisdom, wit, or worth,
Since sordid wealth alone is sought,
And even love with gold is bought.
O may he sleep in endless night,
Who brought the shining plague to light,
Who first gave worth to useless ore,
And taught mankind to sigh for more!
Gold breaks through every sacred tie,
And bids a friend or brother die;
The fruitful source of kindred strife,'
Gold would not spare a parent's life.
Long wars and murders, crimes untold,
All spring from cursed thirst of gold;
And I by sad experience know
'Tis gold that works the lover's woe!

ODE XLVII.-YOUNG OLD AGE.

I LOVE the cheerful, blithesome sage,
Whose temper ne'er betrays his age.
I love the youth that dances well,
To music of the sounding shell.

Thus sings the bard; the magic of whose verse, in spite of reason, leads the fancy captive; the efforts of whose mighty genius will be regarded by future ages with sentiments of admiration, pleasure and regret. For him the Muses wove their brightest wreaths: why did he perversely mingle weeds, rank, poisonous weeds, with their sweet perennial flowers? 1 The ancient poets are loud in their invectives against the auri sacra fames.' Ovid says,

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This is the golden age; all worship gold:
Honors are purchased, love and beauty sold.
Our iron age is grown an age of gold,

'Tis who bids most, for all men would be sold.

But when an aged youth like me
Can join the dance with sportive glee,
Though age in hoary locks appears,
His heart is young, despite his years.

ODE XLVIII.-HAPPY LIFE.

O! FOR the harp, the harp of fire,
That god-like Homer strung:
But ah! on such a blood-stain❜d lyre
Could love's soft notes be sung?

No! let the measured cups be brought,'
And from this scroll divine

I'll read the laws which Bacchus taught
To votaries of the wine.

Then warm in heart, but wisely gay,"
I'll join the sportive throng;
With joy the merry harp I'll play,
And trill the jovial song.

1 The custom of appointing a master of the revels by the cast of a die has already been alluded to.-See ode xiv.

2 I find but few commentators who have noticed the very singular expression of the original in this passage. It means literally preserving the mind;' and is intended to express that degree of pleasurable excitement which exhilarates the spirits without overpowering the senses; or, as Cowper

says,

Cups which cheer but not inebriate :

though the remark is certainly applied to a beverage of a very different nature.

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