But I see nothing in the ode which alludes to matrimony, except it
be the lead upon the feet of Cupid; and I agree in the opinion of Madame
Dacier, in her life of the poet, that he was always too fond of pleasure
to marry.
ODE XXXI.[1]
Armed with hyacinthine rod,
(Arms enough for such a god,)
Cupid bade me wing my pace,
And try with him the rapid race.
O'er many a torrent, wild and deep,
By tangled brake and pendent steep.
With weary foot I panting flew,
Till my brow dropt with chilly dew.
And now my soul, exhausted, dying,
To my lip was faintly flying;
And now I thought the spark had fled,
When Cupid hovered o'er my head,
And fanning light his breezy pinion,
Rescued my soul from death's dominion;[2]
Then said, in accents half-reproving.
"Why hast thou been a foe to loving?"
[1] The design of this little fiction is to intimate, that much greater
pain attends insensibility than can ever result from the tenderest
impressions of love.
[2] "The facility with which Cupid recovers him, signifies that the sweets
of love make us easily forget any solicitudes which he may occasion."--LA
FOSSE.
ODE XXXII.[1]
Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this sweet hour of revelry
Young Love shall my attendant be--
Drest for the task, with tunic round
His snowy neck and shoulders bound,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!
Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal;
A scanty dust, to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.
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