Translation From Anacreon. Ode 3

'Twas now the hour when Night had driven

Her car half round yon sable heaven;

Boötes, only, seem'd to roll

His Arctic charge around the Pole;

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,

Forgot to smile, or ceas'd to weep:

At this lone hour the Paphian boy,

Descending from the realms of joy,

Quick to my gate directs his course,

And knocks with all his little force;

My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,--

"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"

"Alas!" replies the wily child

In faltering accents sweetly mild;

"A hapless Infant here I roam,

Far from my dear maternal home.

Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!

The nightly storm is pouring fast.

No prowling robber lingers here;

A wandering baby who can fear?"

I heard his seeming artless tale,

I heard his sighs upon the gale:

My breast was never pity's foe,

But felt for all the baby's woe.

I drew the bar, and by the light

Young Love, the infant, met my sight;

His bow across his shoulders flung,

And thence his fatal quiver hung

(Ah! little did I think the dart

Would rankle soon within my heart).

With care I tend my weary guest,

His little fingers chill my breast;

His glossy curls, his azure wing,

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;

His shivering limbs the embers warm;

And now reviving from the storm,

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,

Than swift he seized his slender bow:--

"I fain would know, my gentle host,"

He cried, "if this its strength has lost;

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,

The strings their former aid refuse."

With poison tipt, his arrow flies,

Deep in my tortur'd heart it lies:

Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh'd:--

"My bow can still impel the shaft:

'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"