8 For so it is:--thy stubborn breast, Though touch'd by many a slighter wound, Hath no full conquest yet confess'd, Nor the one fatal charmer found; While I, a true and loyal swain, My fair Olympia's gentle reign Through all the varying seasons own. Her genius still my bosom warms: No other maid for me hath charms, Or I have eyes for her alone. ODE XIII. ON LYRIC POETRY. I.--1. Once more I join the Thespian choir, And taste the inspiring fount again: O parent of the Grecian lyre, Admit me to thy powerful strain-- And lo, with ease my step invades The pathless vale and opening shades, Till now I spy her verdant seat; And now at large I drink the sound, While these her offspring, listening round. By turns her melody repeat. I.--2. I see Anacreon smile and sing, His silver tresses breathe perfume: His cheek displays a second spring Of roses, taught by wine to bloom. Away, deceitful cares, away, And let me listen to his lay; Let me the wanton pomp enjoy, While in smooth dance the light-wing'd Hours Lead round his lyre its patron powers, Kind Laughter and Convivial Joy. I.--3. Broke from the fetters of his native land, Devoting shame and vengeance to her lords, With louder impulse and a threatening hand The Lesbian patriot [1] smites the sounding chords: Ye wretches, ye perfidious train, Ye cursed of gods and free-born men, Ye murderers of the laws, Though now ye glory in your lust, Though now ye tread the feeble neck in dust, Yet Time and righteous Jove will judge your dreadful cause. II.--1. But lo, to Sappho's melting airs Descends the radiant queen of love: She smiles, and asks what fonder cares Her suppliant's plaintive measures move: Why is my faithful maid distress'd? Who, Sappho, wounds thy tender breast? Say, flies he?--Soon he shall pursue: Shuns he thy gifts?--He soon shall give: Slights he thy sorrows?--He shall grieve, And soon to all thy wishes bow. II.--2. But, O Melpomene, for whom Awakes thy golden shell again? What mortal breath shall e'er presume To echo that unbounded strain? Majestic in the frown of years, Behold, the man of Thebes [2] appears: For some there are, whose mighty frame The hand of Jove at birth endow'd With hopes that mock the gazing crowd; As eagles drink the noontide flame; II.--3.