I, peaceful 1, no falchion wield; I bend no bow, I poise no shield. The flowery garland crowns my hairs, My hand the powerful goblet bears; The powerful goblet, nobly brave, I drain, and then 'tis sweet to rave.
ALAS! alas! I see each day Steals me from myself away; And every step of life I tread, I speed to mingle with the dead. How many years are past, my friends, I know, and there my knowledge ends. How many years are still in store, I neither can, nor would explore. Then, since the hours incessant fly, They all shall find me crown'd with joy. To those, my cares I here bequeath, Who meanly die for fear of death, And daily with assiduous strife Contrive to live, accurs'd with life.
Then, Care, begone! I'd dance and play; Hence, with thy serious face away! I'll laugh, and whilst gay wine inflames, I'll court the laughter-loving dames; And study to resign my breath In extasy, and smile in death.
BRING me, O bring th' enlivening draught, Lenient of grief, and anxious thought. Then Care retires, asham'd to show His downcast eye, and faded brow. I banish business to the great,
To all that curse, yet covet state.
Death hastes amain: then who would run To meet what most he strives to shun? Or antedate the dreadful day By cares, and aid the fiend to slay?
If tears could bribe his dreadful powers, I'd weep, and bless the precious showers; But let our lot be joy or woe, Alike he speeds to strike the blow.
Then crown the bowl!-ye sorrows, fly To kill some wretch who wants to die.
THE PLEASING FRENZY.
Now bring, by all the powers divine, Bring me a bowl of rosy wine; A mighty bowl of wine I crave: When wine inspires, 'tis sweet to rave. In frantic rage Alemæon drew His falchion, and his mother* slew: Orestes in a furious mood Raving shed his mother's blood. Dreadful, sober madmen, they!- None, harmless drunkard, none I slay: The blood of grapes I only crave; I quaff it, and 'tis sweet to rave.
Alcides, frantic, grasp'd his bow; His quiver rattled, stor'd with woe: Stern Ajax shook his glittering blade, And broad his sevenfold shield display'd: Dangerous madman! how he drew His sword, and hosts in fancy slew!
TALK not to me of pedant rules; I leave debates to learned fools, Who solemnly in form advise; At best, impertinently wise!
To me more pleasing precepts give, And teach the science how to live; To bury in the friendly draught
Sorrows that spring from too much thought To learn soft lessons from the fair, How life may glide exempt from care. Alas! I'm old! I see my head With hoary locks by Time o'erspread : Then instant be the goblet brought, To make me young-at least in thought Alas! incessant speeds the day When I must mix with common clay; When I must tread the dismal shore, And dream of love and wine no more.
SEE, Winter's past! the seasons bring Soft breezes with returning Spring; At whose approach the Graces wear Fresh honours in their flowing hair: The raging Seas forget to roar, And, smiling, gently kiss the shore: The sportive duck, in wanton play, Now dives, now rises into day; The cranes from freezing skies repair, And sailing float to warmer air: Th' enlivening Suns in glory rise, And gaily dance along the skies.
The clouds disperse; or if in showers They fall, it is to wake the flowers: See, verdure clothes the teeming Earth! The olive struggles into birth: The swelling grapes adorn the vine, And kindly promise future wine: Blest juice! already I in thought Quaff an imaginary draught.
GIVE me Homer's tuneful lyre, Let the sound my breast inspire! But with no troublesome delight Of arms, and heroes slain in fight: Let it play no conquests here, Or conquests only o'er the fair!
Boy, reach that volume-book divine; The statutes of the god of wine! He, legislator, statutes draws; And I, his judge, enforce his laws; And, faithful to the weighty trust, Compel his vot'ries to be just: Thus round, the bowl impartial flies, Till to the sprightly dance we rise;
We frisk it with a lively bound, Charm'd with the lyre's harmonious sound: Then pour forth, with an heat divine, Rapturous songs that breathe of wine.
THE HAPPY EFFECTS OF WINE. SEE! see the jolly god appears; His hand a mighty goblet bears: With sparkling wine full-charg'd it flows, The sovereign cure of human woes.
Wine gives a kind release from care, And courage to subdue the fair; Instructs the cheerful to advance Harmonious in the sprightly dance: Hail, goblet! rich with generous wines! See! round the verge a vine-branch twines. See how the mimic clusters roll, As ready to re-fill the bowl!
Wine keeps its happy patients free From every painful malady; Our best physician all the year: Thus guarded, no disease we fear, No troublesome disease of mind, Until another year grows kind, And loads again the fruitful vine, And brings again our health-new wine.
GRAPES; OR THE VINTAGE.
Io! the vintage now is done! And black'ned with th' autumnal Sun The grapes, gay youths and virgins bear, The sweetest product of the year! In vats the heavenly load they lay, And swift the damsels trip away: The youths alone the wine-press tread, For wine's by skilful drunkards made: Mean time the mirthful song they raise, lo! Bacchus, to thy praise! And, eying the blest juice, in thought Quaff an imaginary draught.
Gaily, through wine, the old advance, And doubly tremble in the dance: In fancy'd youth they chaunt and play, Forgetful that their locks are grey.
Through wine, the youth completes his loves; He haunts the silence of the groves: Where, stretch'd beneath th' embowering shade, He spies some love-inspiring maid: On beds of rosy sweets she lies, Inviting sleep to close her eyes: Fast by her side his limbs he throws, Her hand he presses-breathes his vows; And cries, "My love, my soul, comply This instant, or, alas! I die.",
In vain the youth persuasion tries! In vain!-her tongue at least denies : Then scorning Death through dull despair, He storms th' unwilling willing fair; Blessing the grapes that could dispense The happy, happy impudence.
Gently touch it, while I sing The Rose, the glory of the Spring.
To Heaven the Rose in fragrance flies, The sweetest incense of the skies. Thee, joy of Earth, when vernal hours Pour forth a blooming waste of flowers, The gaily-smiling Graces wear, A trophy in their flowing hair. Thee Venus queen of beauty loves, And, crown'd with thee, more graceful moves. In fabled song, and tuneful lays, Their favourite Rose the Muses praise: To pluck the Rose, the virgin-train With blood their pretty fingers stain, Nor dread the pointed terrours round, That threaten, and inflict a wound: See! how they wave the charming toy, Now kiss, now snuff the fragrant joy!
The Rose the poets strive to praise And for it would exchange their bays; O! ever to the sprightly feast Admitted, welcome, pleasing guest! But chiefly when the goblet flows, And rosy wreaths adorn our brows!
Lovely smiling Rose, how sweet The object where thy beauties meet Aurora, with a blushing ray, And rosy fingers, spreads the day: The Graces more enchanting show When rosy blushes paint their snow ; And every pleas'd beholder seeks The Rose in Cytheræa's cheeks.
When pain afflicts, or sickness grieves, Its juice the drooping heart relieves ; And, after death, its odours shed A pleasing fragrance o'er the dead; And when its withering charms decay, And sinking, fading, die away, Triumphant o'er the rage of Time, It keeps the fragrance of its primc.
Come, lyrist, join to sing the birth Of this sweet offspring of the Earth!
When Venus from the Ocean's bed Rais'd o'er the waves her lovely head; When warlike Pallas sprung from Jove, Tremendous to the powers above; To grace the world, the teeming Earth Gave the fragrant infant birth, And "This," she cry'd, "I this ordain My favourite, queen of flowers to reign!" But first th' assembled gods debate The future wonder to create: Agreed at length, from Heaven they threw A drop of rich, nectareous dew; A bramble-stem the drop receives, And strait the Rose adorns the leaves.
The gods to Bacchus gave the flower, To grace him in the genial hour.
COME, lyrist, tune thy harp, and play Responsive to my vocal lay:
WHEN sprightly youths my eyes survey, I too am young, and I am gay; In dance my active body swins, And sudden pinions lift my limbs.
Haste, crown, Cybaba, crown my brows With garlands of the fragrant rose!
No Pythic laurel-wreath I claim, That lifts Ambition into fame: My voice unbidden tunes the lay: Some god impels, and I obey. Listen, ye groves!-The Muse prepares A sacred song in Phrygian airs; Such as the swan expiring sings, Melodious by Cäyster's springs, While listening winds in silence hear And to the gods the music bear.
Celestial Muse! attend, and bring Thy aid, while I thy Phoebus sing: To Phoebus and the Muse belong The laurel, lyre, and Delphic song.
Begin, begin the lofty strain! How Phoebus lov'd, but lov'd in vain; How Daphne fled his guilty flame, And scorn'd a god that offer'd shame. With glorious pride his vows she hears; And Heaven, indulgent to her prayers, To laurel chang'd the nymph, and gave Her foliage to reward the brave.
Ah! how, on wings of Love convey'd, He flew to clasp the panting maid! Now, now o'ertakes!-but Heaven deceives His hope-he seizes only leaves.
Why fires my raptur'd breast? ah! why, Ah! whither strives my soul to fly? I feel the pleasing frenzy strong, Impulsive to some nobler song: Let, let the wanton fancy play; But guide it, lest it devious stray.
But oh! in vain, my Muse denies Her aid, a slave to lovely eyes. Suffice it to rehearse the pains Of bleeding nymphs, and dying swains; Nor dare to wield the shafts of Love, That wound the gods, and conquer Jove. I yield! adieu the lofty strain! I am Anacreon once again: Again the melting song I play, Attemper'd to the vocal lay: See! see! how with attentive ears The youths imbibe the nectar'd airs! And quaff, in lowery shades reclin'd, My precepts, to regale the mind.
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