possibly by Anacreon (c582BCE - c485BCE)
Translation by Thomas Moore (1779 - 1852)

Ode XXIII
Language: English  after the Greek (Ελληνικά) 
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!

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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

Text added to the website: 2010-04-19 00:00:00
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:03:39
Line count: 22
Word count: 140