O THOU, of all creation blest, Sweet insect! that delight'st to rest Upon the wild wood's leafy tops, To drink the dew that morning drops, And chirp thy song with such a glee That happiest kings may envy thee! Whatever decks the velvet field, Whate'er the circling seasons yield, Whatever buds, whatever blows, For thee it buds, for thee it grows. Nor yet art thou the peasant's fear To him thy friendly notes are dear; For thou art mild as matin dew, And still, when summer's flowery hue Begins to paint the bloomy plain, We hear thy sweet prophetic strain; Thy sweet, prophetic strain we hear, And bless the notes, and thee revere ! The Muses love thy shrilly tone; Apollo calls thee all his own;
'Twas he who gave that voice to thee, 'Tis he who tunes thy minstrelsy. Unworn by age's dim decline,
The fadeless blooms of youth are thine. Melodious insect! child of earth! In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth; Exempt from every weak decay That withers vulgar frames away; With not a drop of blood to stain The current of thy purer vein; So blest an age is passed by thee, Thou seem'st a little deity!
CUPID once upon a bed
Of roses laid his weary head;
Luckless urchin, not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering bee! The bee awaked-with anger wild The bee awaked, and stung the child. Loud and piteous are his cries; To Venus quick he runs, he flies! "O mother!-I am wounded through I die with pain-in sooth I do! Stung by some little angry thing, Some serpent on a tiny wing- A bee it was-for once, I know, I heard a rustic call it so."
Thus he spoke, and she the while Heard him with a soothing smile; Then said, " My infant, if so much Thou feel the little wild-bee's touch, How must the heart, ah Cupid! be The hapless heart that's stung by thee!"
IF hoarded gold possessed a power To lengthen life's too fleeting hour, And purchase from the hand of death A little span, a moment's breath, How I would love the precious ore! And every day should swell my store;
That when the Fates would send their minion, To waft me off on shadowy pinion,
I might some hours of life obtain, And bribe him back to hell again. But, since we ne'er can charm away The mandate of that awful day, Why do we vainly weep at fate, And sigh for life's uncertain date? The light of gold can ne'er illume The dreary midnight of the tomb!
And why should I then pant for treasures? Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures; The goblet rich, the board of friends, Whose flowing souls the goblet blends ! Mine be the nymph whose form reposes Seductive on that bed of roses; And oh ! be mine the soul's excess, Expiring in her warm caress!
'TWAS night, and many a circling bowl Had deeply warmed my swimming soul; As lulled in slumber I was laid, Bright visions o'er my fancy played! With virgins, blooming as the dawn, I seemed to trace the opening lawn; Light, on tiptoe bathed in dew, We flew, and sported as we flew! Some ruddy striplings, young and sleek, With blush of Bacchus on their cheek, Saw me trip the flowery wild
With dimpled girls, and slyly smiled; Smiled indeed with wanton glee, But, ah! 'twas plain they envied me.
And still I flew-and now I caught The panting nymphs, and fondly thought To kiss-when all my dream of joys, Dimpled girls and ruddy boys,
All were gone! "Alas!" I said, Sighing for the illusions fled, "Sleep! again my joys restore,
Oh let me dream them o'er and o'er !"
LET us drain the nectared bowl, Let us raise the song of soul To him, the god who loves so well The nectared bowl, the choral swell! Him who instructs the sons of earth To thrid the tangled dance of mirth : Him who was nursed with infant Love, And cradled in the Paphian grove; Him that the snowy Queen of Charms Has fondled in her twining arms. From him that dream of transport flows Which sweet intoxication knows; With him, the brow forgets to darkle, And brilliant graces learn to sparkle. Behold! my boys a goblet bear, Whose sunny foam bedews the air. Where are now the tear, the sigh? To the winds they fly, they fly! Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking, Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking! Oh! can the tears we lend to thought In life's account avail us aught? Can we discern, with all our lore, The path we're yet to journey o'er? No, no! the walk of life is dark; 'Tis wine alone can strike a spark! Then let me quaff the foamy tide,
And through the dance meandering glide; Let me imbibe the spicy breath Of odours chafed to fragrant death; Or from the kiss of love inhale A more voluptuous, richer gale! To souls that court the phantom Care Let him retire and shroud him there; While we exhaust the nectared bowl, And swell the choral song of soul To him, the god who loves so well The nectared bowl, the choral swell!
How I love the festive boy, Tripping wild the dance of joy! How I love the mellow sage, Smiling through the veil of age! And whene'er this man of years In the dance of joy appears, Age is on his temples hung, But his heart-his heart is young!
I KNOW that Heaven ordains me here To run this mortal life's career;
The scenes which I have journeyed o'er Return no more-alas! no more; And all the path I've yet to go
I neither know nor ask to know. Then surely, Care, thou canst not twine Thy fetters round a soul like mine; No, no! the heart that feels with me Can never be a slave to thee! And oh! before the vital thrill, Which trembles at my heart, is still, I'll gather Joy's luxuriant flowers, And gild with bliss my fading hours; Bacchus shall bid my winter bloom, And Venus dance me to the tomb!
And while the red cup circles round, Mingle in soul as well as sound!
Let the bright nymph, with trembling eye, Beside me all in blushes lie;
And, while she weaves a frontlet fair
Of hyacinth to deck my hair,
Oh! let me snatch her sidelong kisses, And that shall be my bliss of blisses! My soul, to festive feeling true, One pang of envy never knew; And little has it learned to dread
The gall that envy's tongue can shed. Away-I hate the slanderous dart
Which steals to wound the unwary heart; And oh! I hate, with all my soul, Discordant clamours o'er the bowl, Where every cordial heart should be Attuned to peace and harmony. Come, let us hear the soul of song Expire the silver harp along;
And through the dance's ringlet move, With maidens mellowing into love: Thus simply happy, thus at peace, Sure such a life should never cease!
WHILE our rosy fillets shed Blushes o'er each fervid head,
With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile.
And while the harp, impassioned, flings Tuneful rapture from the strings,
Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs, Through the dance luxuriant swims, Waving, in her snowy hand, The leafy Bacchanalian wand, Which, as the tripping wanton flies, Shakes its tresses to her sighs!
A youth the while, with loosened hair, Floating on the listless air,
Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone, A tale of woes, alas! his own;
And then what nectar in his sigh, As o'er his lip the murmurs die! Surely never yet has been So divine, so blest a scene! Has Cupid left the starry sphere, To wave his golden tresses here? Oh yes! and Venus, queen of wiles, And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, All, all are here, to hail with me The genius of festivity!
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