ODE XIII.—ON HIMSELF.
Poor Atys,[1] as old poets sing,
O'er the wild mountains wandering,
Degraded from his former state,
Cybele's love now turned to hate,
With plaintive cries invoked relief,
Till madness brought an end to grief.
And some who to the waters throng,
Of laurell'd Phœbus, god of song,
At Claros drink the vocal wave,[2]
And with prophetic fury rave;
Then shall not I when wine inspires,
And Chloe's eyes dart love's bright fires,
When bathed in sweets, without alloy,
And rapt in wild, delirious joy,
Refuse a while stern reason's sway,
And be as madly wild as they?
- ↑ Atys was a young Phrygian of great beauty, beloved by Cybele, the mother of the gods, who afflicted him with madness for violating his vow of chastity. According to Ovid, he was afterward turned into a pine-tree.
- ↑ Claros was a city of Ionia, near Colophon, and was famous for a fountain sacred to Apollo. The term vocal alludes to the property which the waters of this spring were said to have of imparting to those who drank of them the gift of prophecy.