At noon where Lesbia loved to lave?
Who named the bower alone where Daphne lay?
And who, when Celia shrieked for aid,
Bade you with kisses hush the maid?
What other was’t than Love, oh! false Anacreon, say!
“Then you could call me—‘Gentle boy!
‘My only bliss! my source of joy!’
Then you could prize me dearer than your soul!
Could kiss, and dance me on your knees;
And swear, not wine itself would please,
Had not the lip of Love first touched the flowing bowl!
“Must those sweet days return no more?
Must I for aye your loss deplore,
Banished your heart, and from your favour driven?
Ah! no; my fears that smile denies;
That heaving breast, those sparkling eyes
Declare me ever dear, and all my faults forgiven.
“Again beloved, esteemed, caressed,
Cupid shall in thine arms be pressed,
Sport on thy knees, or on thy bosom sleep:
My torch thine age-struck heart shall warm;
My hand pale winter’s rage disarm,
And Youth and Spring shall here once more their revels keep.”—
A feather now of golden hue
He smiling from his pinion drew;
This to the poet’s hand the boy commits;
And straight before Anacreon’s eyes
The fairest dreams of fancy rise,
And round his favoured head wild inspiration flits.
His bosom glows with amorous fire;
Eager he grasps the magic lyre;
Swift o’er the tuneful chords his fingers move:
The feather plucked from Cupid’s wing
Sweeps the too-long neglected string,
While soft Anacreon sings the power and praise of love.
Soon as that name was heard, the woods
Shook off their snows; the melting floods
Broke their cold chains, and winter fled away.
Once more the earth was decked with flowers;
Mild zephyrs breathed through blooming bowers;
High towered the glorious sun, and poured the blaze of day.
Attracted by the harmonious sound,
Sylvans and fauns the cot surround,
And curious crowd the minstrel to behold:
The wood-nymphs haste the spell to prove;
Eager they run; they list, they love,
And, while they hear the strain, forget the man is old.
Cupid, to nothing constant long,
Perched on the harp attends the song,
