Reply to Anacreon’s 8th Ode

Miss Vardill

Translated for the Attic Chest

Kind Dove, thy silver wings expand,
Return and greet thy Master’s hand;
Thy beak in purple nectar dip
And add its richness to his lip; — 
But tell him in a distant day
Thy wings shall waft his purest lay
Far as the West’s elysian isle
To win an attic fair one’s smile;
And Friendship from his honied vine
Shall steal a leaf for ELLEN’s shrine.

Wait, faithful bird, and watch the hour
When kindred Muses throng her bow’r;
Then round the hallow’d tapers skim,
And hover on her goblet’s brim:
There gently sip, and seek no more
The Teian grape’s ambrosial store;
A purer draught her goblet fills
From rich Castalia’s lucid rills:
But make her sacred chest thy care — 
Thy master’s attic lyre is there!