The tuneful Teian, skill'd to sing
The lays of love on warbling string.
I hasten'd to his kind embrace,
And kiss'd his sweetly smiling face.
Though somewhat old, he seemed to wage
Successful war with spiteful age:
For love still beam'd in each bright eye,
And from his lips there seem'd to fly
Sweet gales of rich and rosy wine,
Which shed a fragrance quite divine.
His slow and staggering steps were stay'd
By laughing Cupid's kindly aid.
The garland that intwined his hair
The bard unbound and bade me wear.
Anacreon's burning soul it breathed,
And I with it my brows enwreathed.
E'er since my heart is doom'd to prove
The pleasing pains of lasting love.
ODE LX.—ON THE SPRING.
How sweet through sunny meads to stray,
With Flora's rich profusion gay,
While Zephyr breathes its softest sighs,
And mingled perfumes round us rise!
How sweet beneath the secret shade,
By the vine's broad foliage made,[1]
With some loved fair to pass the day,
And talk th' unheeded hours away!
- ↑ "The country from hence to Adrianople is the finest in the world. Vines grow wild on all the hills, and the perpetual spring they enjoy makes everything gay and flourishing."—Lady Montague's Letters.
THE END.
