The Complete Poems of Sir Thomas Moore
Chapter 10 : ODE XLVII.'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet can I quaff the br.i.m.m.i.n.g w

ODE XLVII.

'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet can I quaff the br.i.m.m.i.n.g wine, As deep as any stripling fair, Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear; And if, amidst the wanton crew, I'm called to wind the dance's clue, Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand, Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand, But brandis.h.i.+ng a rosy flask, The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask![1]

Let those, who pant for Glory's charms, Embrace her in the field of arms; While my inglorious, placid soul Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl.

Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, And bathe me in its br.i.m.m.i.n.g wave.

For though my fading years decay, Though manhood's prime hath past away, Like old Silenus, sire divine, With blushes borrowed from my wine.

I'll wanton mid the dancing train, And live my follies o'er again!

[1] Phornutus a.s.signs as a reason for the consecration of the thyrsus to Bacchus, that inebriety often renders the support of a stick very necessary.

ODE XLVIII.

When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lulled to sleep.

Talk of monarchs! I am then Richest, happiest, first of men; Careless o'er my cup I sing, Fancy makes me more than king; Gives me wealthy Croesus' store, Can I, can I wish for more?

On my velvet couch reclining, Ivy leaves my brow entwining,[1]

While my soul expands with glee, What are kings and crowns to me?

If before my feet they lay, I would spurn them all away; Arm ye, arm ye, men of might, Hasten to the sanguine fight; But let _me_, my budding vine!

Spill no other blood than thine.

Yonder br.i.m.m.i.n.g goblet see, That alone shall vanquish me-- Who think it better, wiser far To fall in banquet than in war,

[1] "The ivy was consecrated to Bacchus [says Montfaucon], because he formerly lay hid under that tree, or as others will have it, because its leaves resemble those of the vine." Other reasons for its consecration, and the use of it in garlands at banquets, may be found in Longepierre, Barnes, etc.

ODE XLIX.

When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy, The rosy harbinger of joy, Who, with the suns.h.i.+ne of the bowl, Thaws the winter of our soul-- When to my inmost core he glides, And bathes it with his ruby tides, A flow of joy, a lively heat, Fires my brain, and wings my feet, Calling up round me visions known To lovers of the bowl alone.

Sing, sing of love, let music's sound In melting cadence float around, While, my young Venus, thou and I Responsive to its murmurs sigh.

Then, waking from our blissful trance, Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.

ODE L.[1]

When wine I quaff, before my eyes Dreams of poetic glory rise;[2]

And freshened by the goblet's dews, My soul invokes the heavenly Muse, When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er; I think of doubts and fears no more; But scatter to the railing wind Each gloomy phantom of the mind.

When I drink wine, the ethereal boy, Bacchus himself, partakes my joy; And while we dance through vernal bowers, Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers, In wine he makes my senses swim, Till the gale breathes of naught but him!

Again I drink,--and, lo, there seems A calmer light to fill my dreams; The lately ruffled wreath I spread With steadier hand around my head; Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest The life of him who lives at rest!"

But then comes witching wine again, With glorious woman in its train; And, while rich perfumes round me rise, That seem the breath of woman's sighs, Bright shapes, of every hue and form.

Upon my kindling fancy swarm, Till the whole world of beauty seems To crowd into my dazzled dreams!

When thus I drink, my heart refines, And rises as the cup declines; Rises in the genial flow, That none but social spirits know, When, with young revellers, round the bowl, The old themselves grow young in soul!

Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine, There's bliss in every drop of wine.

All other blessings I have known, I scarcely dared to call my own; But this the Fates can ne'er destroy, Till death o'ershadows all my joy.

[1] Faber thinks this ode spurious; but, I believe, he is singular in his opinion. It has all the spirit of our author. Like the wreath which he presented in the dream, "it smells of Anacreon."

[2] Anacreon is not the only one [says Longepierre] whom wine has inspired with poetry. We find an epigram in the first book of the "Anthologia,"

which begins thus:--

If with water you fill up your gla.s.ses, You'll never write anything wise; For wine's the true horse of Parna.s.sus.

Which carries a bard to the skies!

ODE LI.

Fly not thus my brow of snow, Lovely wanton! fly not so.

Though the wane of age is mine, Though youth's brilliant flush be thine, Still I'm doomed to sigh for thee, Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!

See, in yonder flowery braid, Culled for thee, my blus.h.i.+ng maid,[1]

How the rose, of orient glow, Mingles with the lily's snow; Mark, how sweet their tints agree, Just, my girl, like thee and me!

[1] In the same manner that Anacreon pleads for the whiteness of his locks, from the beauty of the color in garlands, a shepherd, in Theocritus, endeavors to recommend his black hair.

ODE LII.[1]