Poetical Works: Anacreon, Ode Ninth

Anacreon, Ode Ninth

  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 Myrtalè 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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