ODE XXI.—SUMMER.
Bring, maidens, bring a well-mix'd bowl,
And let me slake my thirsty soul;
For, scorch'd beneath this sultry sky,
My spirits sink—I faint—I die.
This garland, late so fresh and fair,[1]
I twined amid my curling hair;
But all its faded flow'rets now
Have wither'd on my burning brow.
Bring fresher wreaths my head to shade;
Bring others still when those shall fade.
But, oh! what ease can wine impart
When love's fierce flame consumes the heart?
In vain to groves or shades I fly,[2]
This inward flame will never die!
- ↑ The custom of wearing garlands of flowers at entertainments has already been mentioned.
- ↑ The reflection here made by the poet is just and natural, and is similar to that at the conclusion of the fourteenth ode. When love has once taken possession of the heart, external defences cease to be useful.