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When I drink, the jesting boy.
Bacchus himself partakes my joy;
And while we dance through breathing bowers,
Whose every gale is rich with flowers,
In bowls he makes my senses swim,
Till the gale breathes of nought but him!
When I drink, I deftly twine
Flowers, begemmed with tears of wine ;
And, while with festive hand I spread
The smiling garland round my head,
Something whispers in my breast,
How sweet it is to live at rest!
When I drink, and perfume stills
Around me all in balmy rills,
Then as some beauty, smiling roses,
In languor on my breast reposes,
Venus ! I breathe my vows to thee
In many a sigh of luxury !
When I drink, my heart refines,
And rises as the cup declines;
Rises in the genial flow
That none but social spirits know,
When youthful revellers, round the bowl,
Dilating, mingle soul with soul !
When I drink, the bliss is mine ;
There's bliss in every drop of wine !
All other joys that I have known,
I've scarcely dared to call my own;
But this the Fates can ne'er destroy.
Till death o'ershadows all my joy!
Fly not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton ! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though the brilliant flush is thine,
Still I'm doomed to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!
See, in yonder flowery braid,
Culled for thee, my blushing maid,
How the rose, of orient glow,
Mingles with the lily's snow;
Mark, how sweet their tints agree,
Just, my girl, like thee and me!
Away, away, you men of rules,
What have I to do with schools?
They'd make me learn, they'd make me think,
But would they make me love and drink?
Teach me this, and let me swim
My soul upon the goblet's brim ;
Teach me this, and let me twine
My arms around the nymph divine !
Age begins to blanch my brow,
I've time for nought but pleasure now.
Fly, and cool my goblet's glow
At yonder fountain's gelid flow;
I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink
This soul to slumber as I drink !
Soon, too soon, my jocund slave,
You'll deck your master's grassy grave;
And there's an end--for ah! you know
They drink but little wine below!
WHEN I behold the festive train
Of dancing youth, I'm young again !
Memory wakes her magic trance,
And wings me lightly through the dance.
Come, Cybeba, smiling maid !
Cull the flower and twine the braid ;
Bid the blush of summer's rose
Burn upon my brow of snows;
And let me, while the wild and young
Trip the mazy dance along,
Fling my heap of years away,
And be as wild, as young as they.
Hither haste, some cordial soul i
Give my lips the brimming bowl :
Oh! you will see this hoary sage
Forget his locks, forget his age.
He still can chant the festive hymn,
He still can kiss the goblet's brim ;
He still can act the mellow raver,
And play the fool as sweet as ever !
METHINKS, the pictured bull we see
Is amorous Jove-it must be he!
How fondly blest he seems to bear
That fairest of Phænician fair!
How proud he breasts the foamy tide,
And spurns the billowy surge aside!
Could any beast of vulgar vein,
Undaunted thus, defy the main?
No: he descends from climes above,
He looks the god, he breathes of Jove!
While we invoke the wreathed spring,
Resplendent rose ! to thee we'll sing ;
Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers,
Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers:
Whose virgin blush, of chastened dye,
Enchants so much our mortal eye.
When pleasure's bloomy season glows,
The Graces love to twine the rose;
The rose is warm Dione's bliss,
And Aushes like Dione's kiss!
Oft has the poet's magic tongue
The rose's fair luxuriance sung ;
And long the Muses, heavenly maids,
Have reared it in their tuneful shades.
When, at the early glance of morn,
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,
'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence,
To cull the timid floweret thence,
And wipe with tender hand away
The tear that on its blushes lay!
'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,
Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,
And fresh inhale the spicy sighs
That from the weeping buds arise.
When revel reigns, when mirth is high,
And Bacchus beams in every eye,
Our rosy fillets scent exhale,
And fill with balm the fainting gale !
Oh ! there is nought in nature bright,
Where roses do not shed their light!
When morning paints the orient skies,
Her fingers burn with roseate dyes;
The nymphs display the rose's charms,
It mantles o'er their graceful arms;
Through Cytherea's form it glows,
And mingles with the living snows.
The rose distils a healing balm,
The beating pulse of pain to calm ;
Preserves the cold inurned clay,
And mocks the vestige of decay:
And when at length, in pale decline,
Its florid beauties fade and pine,
Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath
Diffuses odour e'en in death!
Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung?
Attend - for thus the tale is sung.
When, humid, from the silvery stream,
Effusing beauty's warmest beam,
Venus appeared, in Aushing hues,
Mellowed by ocean's briny dews;
When, in the starry courts above,
The pregnant brain of mighty Jove
Disclosed the nymph of azure glanch,
The nymph who shakes the martial lance :
Then, then, in strange eventful hour,
The earth produced an infant flower,
Which sprung, with blushing tinctures drest,
And wantoned o'er its parent breast.
The gods beheld this brilliant birth,
And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth!
With nectar drops, a ruby tide,
The sweetly orient buds they dyed,
And bade them bloom, the flowers divine
Of him who sheds the teeming vine ;
And bade them on the spangled thorn
Expand their bosoms to the morn.
He who instructs the youthful crew
To bathe them in the brimmer's dew,
And taste, uncloyed by rich excesses,
All the bliss that wine possesses !
He who inspires the youth to glance
In winged circlets through the dance;
Bacchus the god, again is here,
And leads along the blushing year ;
The blushing year with rapture teems,
Ready to shed those cordial streams
Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth,
Illuminate the sons of earth!
And when the ripe and vermeil wine,
Sweet infant of the pregnant vine,
Which now in mellow clusters swells,
Oh! when it bursts its rosy cells,
The heavenly stream shall mantling flow
To balsam every mortal woe!
No youth shall then be wan or weak,
For dimpling health shall light the cheek
No heart shall then desponding sigh,
For wine shall bid despondence fly!
Thus till another autumn's glow
Shall bid another vintage flow!
And whose immortal hand could shed
Upon this disk the ocean's bed?
And, in a frenzied flight of soul
Sublime as heaven's eternal pole,
Imagine thus, in semblance warm, The Queen of Love's voluptuous form Floating along the silvery sea In beauty's naked majesty? Oh! he has given the captured sight A witching banquet of delight; And all those sacred scenes of love, Where only hallowed eyes may rove, Lie, faintiy glowing. half concealed, Within the lucid billow's veiled. Light as the leaf, that summer's breeze Has wasted o'er the glassy seas, She floats upon the ocean's breast, Which undulates in sleepy rest, And stealing on, she gently pillows Her bosom on the amorous billows. Her bosom, like the humid rose, Her neck, like dewy-sparkling snows, Illume the liquid path she traces, And burn within the stream's embraces! In languid luxury soft she glides, Encircled by the azure tides, Like some fair lily, faint with weeping, Upon a bed of violets sleeping ! Beneaih their queen's inspiring glance, The dolphins o'er the green sea dance, Bearing in triumph young Desire, And baby Love with smiles of fire! While, sparkling on the silver waves, The tenants of the briny caves Around the pomp in eddies play, And gleam along the watery way.
When gold, as fleet as zephyr's pinion,
Escapes like any faithless minion,
And Aies me (as he flies me ever),
Do I pursue him? Never, never!
No, let the false deserter go.
For who would court his direst foe?
But, when I feel my lightened mind
No more by ties of gold confined,
I loosen all my clinging cares,
And cast them to the vagrant airs.
Then, then I feel the Muse's spell,
And wake to life the dulcet shell ;
The dulcet shell to beauty sings,
And love dissolves along the strings !
Thus, when my heart is sweetly taught
How little gold deserves a thought,