The urchin laughed at my disgrace,
And while his pinions fann'd my face,
"My friend," he cried, "you clearly prove
That you are not a match fur Love!"
ODE VIII.—ON HIS DREAM.[1]
Peaceful slumbering through the night,
On a purple couch reclined,
Dreams of joy and visions bright
Bacchus sent to charm my mind.
Methought I join'd in rapid race
With flying nymphs a sportive crew,
And urging on with swiftest pace,
Still kept the lovely game in view.
While youths, as young Lyæus fair,[2]
With jealous hate, and envy stung,
Who saw my joy, but could not share
Reviled me as I pass'd along.
A kiss I claim'd—my promised prize;
But as on pleasure's brink I seem,
The vision fled my cheated eyes:
I woke, and lo! 'twas all a dream!
Then lonely, sad, and angry too,[3]
To find my high-raised hopes were vain,
- ↑ For the different metre of this ode, and of some others in the collection, I have only to remark that I have deviated from the usual Anacreontic measure for the sake of variety.
- ↑ Lyæus is a name given to Bacchus. It is derived from a Greek verb, signifying to loosen or free, and is, from the circumstance of wine freeing the mind from anxiety, appropriately assigned to him.
- ↑ There is a similar passage in one of Ovid's epistles; in that from Sappho to Phaon, so beautifully translated by Pope. I
