What more would thy Anacreon be?
Oh, any thing that touches thee;
Nay, sandals for those airy feet--
Even to be trod by them were sweet!
[1] The compliment of this ode is exquisitely delicate, and so singular
for the period in which Anacreon lived, when the scale of love had not yet
been graduated Into all its little progressive refinements, that if we
were inclined to question the authenticity of the poem, we should find a
much more plausible argument in the features of modern gallantry which it
bears, than in any of those fastidious conjectures upon which some
commentators have presumed so far.
[2] The women of Greece not only wore this zone, but condemned themselves
to fasting, and made use of certain drugs and powders for the same
purpose. To these expedients they were compelled, in consequence of their
inelegant fashion of compressing the waist into a very narrow compass,
which necessarily caused an excessive tumidity in the bosom. See
"Dioscorides," lib. v.
ODE XXIII.
I often wish this languid lyre,
This warbler of my soul's desire,
Could raise the breath of song sublime,
To men of fame, in former time.
But when the soaring theme I try,
Along the chords my numbers die,
And whisper, with dissolving tone,
"Our sighs are given to love alone!"
Indignant at the feeble lay,
I tore the panting chords away,
Attuned them to a nobler swell,
And struck again the breathing shell;
In all the glow of epic fire,
To Hercules I wake the lyre,
But still its fainting sighs repeat,
"The tale of love alone is sweet!"
Then fare thee well, seductive dream,
That madest me follow Glory's theme;
For thou my lyre, and thou my heart,
Shall never more in spirit part;
And all that one has felt so well
The other shall as sweetly tell!
ODE XXIV.
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