If hoarded gold possest the power
To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,
And purchase from the hand of death
A little span, a moment's breath,
How I would love the precious ore!
And every hour should swell my store;
That when death came, with shadowy pinion,
To waft me to his bleak dominion,
I might, by bribes, my doom delay,
And bid him call some distant day.
But, since not all earth's golden store
Can buy for us one bright hour more,
Why should we vainly mourn our fate,
Or sigh at life's uncertain date?
Nor wealth nor grandeur can illume
The silent midnight of the tomb.
No—give to others hoarded treasures—
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures—
The goblet rich, the board of friends,
Whose social souls the goblet blends;[2]
And mine, while yet I've life to live,
Those joys that love alone can give.
[1] Fontenelle has translated this ode, in his dialogue between Anacreon and Aristotle in the shades, where, on weighing the merits of both these personages, he bestows the prize of wisdom upon the poet.
[2] The goblet rich, the board of friends. Whose social soul the goblet blends.
This communion Of friendship, which sweetened the bowl of Anacreon, has not been forgotten by the author of the following scholium, where the blessings of life are enumerated with proverbial simplicity:
Of mortal blessing here the first is health,
And next those charms by which the eye we move;
The third is wealth, unwounding guiltless wealth,
And then, sweet intercourse with those we love!
ODE XXXVII.
'Twas night, and many a circling bowl
Had deeply warmed my thirsty soul;
As lulled in slumber I was laid,
Bright visions o'er my fancy played.
With maidens, blooming as the dawn,
I seemed to skim the opening lawn;
Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew,
We flew, and sported as we flew!
Some ruddy striplings, who lookt on—
With cheeks that like the wine-god's shone,
Saw me chasing, free and wild,
These blooming maids, and slyly smiled;
Smiled indeed with wanton glee,
Though none could doubt they envied me.
And still I flew—and now had caught
The panting nymphs, and fondly thought
To gather from each rosy lip
A kiss that Jove himself might sip—
When sudden all my dream of joys,
Blushing nymphs and laughing boys,
All were gone!—"Alas!" I said,
Sighing for the illusion fled,
"Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore,
Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"[1]
[1] Dr. Johnson, in his preface to Shakespeare, animadverting upon the commentators of that poet, who pretended, in every little coincidence of thought, to detect an imitation of some ancient poet, alludes in the following words to the line of Anacreon before us: "I have been told that when Caliban, after a pleasing dream says, 'I cried to sleep again,' the author imitates Anacreon, who had, like any other man, the same wish on the same occasion."