Poem by Thomas Moore

From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 31

Arm’d 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 dropp’d 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 hover’d o’er my head,
And fanning light his breezy pinion,
Rescued my soul from death’s dominion;
Then said, in accents half-reproving,
„Why hast thou been a foe to loving?”

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 48
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 3
3. From “Irish Melodies”. 57. Oh! Had We Some Bright Little Isle of Our Own
4. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 50
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 70

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