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, 66
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!"

XXXVI

I hoa ded gold possess' the 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 hour should swell my store;

That when death came, with shadowy pinion,
To waft me to his bleak dominion;
I might, by bribes, my doom delay,
And bid him call some distant day.
But, since, not all earth's golden store
Can buy for us one bright hour more,
Why should we vainly mourn our fate
Or sigh at life's uncertain date?
Nor wealth nor grandeur can illume
The silent midnight of the tomb.
No-give to others hoarded treasures-
Mine be the brilliant round of pleasures;
The goblet rich, the board of friends,
Whose social souls the goblet blends;
And mine, while yet I've life to live,
Those joys that love alone can give.

XXXVII.

Twas night, and many a circling bowl
Had deeply warm'd my thirsty soul;
As lull'd in slumber I was laid,
Bright visions o'er my fancy play'd.
With maidens, blooming as the dawn,
I seem'd to skim the opening lawn;
Light, on tiptoe bath'd in dew,
We flew, and sported as we flew!

Some ruddy striplings who look'd on-
With cheeks, that like the wine-god's shone,
Saw me chasing, free and wild,
These blooming maids, and slyly smil❜d;
Smil'd indeed with wanton glee,
Though none could doubt they envied me.
And still I flew-and now had caught
The panting nymphs, and fondly thought
To gather from each rosy lip

A kiss that Jove himself might sip-
When sudden all my dream of joys,
Blushing nymphs and laughing boys,
All were gone!" Alas!" I said,
Sighing for th' illusion fled,

"Again, sweet sleep, that scene restore,
Oh! let me dream it o'er and o'er!"

XXXVIII.

LET us drain the nectar'd bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell;
The god who taught the sons of earth
To thrid the tangled dance of mirth;
Him, who was nurs'd with infant Love,
And cradled in the Paphian grove;
Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms

So oft has fondled in her arms.
Oh 'tis from him the transport flows,
Which sweet intoxication knows;
With him the brow forgets its gloom,
And brilliant graces learn to bloom.

Behold!-my boys a goblet bear,
Whose sparkling foam lights up 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!
Say, can the tears we lend to though
In life's account avail us aught?
Can we discern with all our lore,
The path we've yet to journey o'er?
Alas, alas, in ways so dark,

'Tis only wine can strike a spark!
Then let me quaff the foamy tide,
And through the dance mean lering glide,
Let me imbibe the spicy breath
Of odours chaf'd to fragrant death;
Or from the lips of love inhale
A more ambrosial, richer gale!

To hearts that court the phantom Care,
Let him retire and shroud him there;
While we exhaust the nectar'd bowl,
And swell the choral song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!

XXXIX

How I love the festive boy,
Tripping through 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,
Snows may o'er his head be flung,
But his heart-his heart is young.

XL.

I KNOW that Heaven hath sent me here
To run this mortal life's career;
The scenes which I have journey'd o'er,
Return no more-alas! no more;
And all the path I've yet to go,

I neither know nor ask to know
Away, then, wizard Care, nor think
Thy fetters round this soul to link;
Never can heart that feels with me
Descend to 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!

XLI.

WHEN Spring adorns the dewy scene,
How sweet to walk the velvet green,
And hear the west wind's gentle sighs,
As o'er the scented mead it flies!
How sweet to mark the pouting vine,
Ready to burst in tears of wine;
And with some maid, who breathes but love,
To walk, at noontide, through the grove,
Or sit in some cool, green recess―
Oh, is not this true happiness?

XLII.

YES, be the glorious revel mine,

Where humour sparkles from the wine
Around me, let the youthful choir
Respond to my enlivening lyre;
And while the red cup foams along,
Mingle in soul as well as song.

Then, while I sit, with flowret's crown'd,
To regulate the goblet's round,

Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride, Be seated smiling by my side,

And earth has not a gift or power
That I would envy, in that hour.
Envy-oh never let its blight
Touch the gay hearts met here to-night.
far hence be slander's sidelong wounds,
Nor harsh dispute, nor discord's sounds
Disturb a scene, where all should be
Attuned to peace and harmony.

Come, let us hear the harp's gay note
Upon the breeze inspiring float,
While round us, kindling into love,

Young maidens through the light dance move
Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace,

Sure such a life should never cease!

XLIII.

WHILE our rosy fillets shed
Freshness o'er each fervid head,
With many a cup and many a smile
The festal moments ve beguile.
And while the harp, mpassion'd, flings
Tuneful raptures from its strings,
Some airy nymph, with graceful bound,
Keeps measure to the music sound;
Waving, in her snowy hand,
The leafy Bacchanalian wand,
Which, as the tripping wanton flies,
Trembles all over to her sighs.

A youth the while, with loosen'd hair,
Floating on the listless air,

Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone,
A tale of woes, alas, his own;
And oh, the sadness in his sigh,
As o'er his lip the accents die!
Never sure on earth has been
Half so bright, so blest a scene.
It seems as Love himself had come
To make this spot his chosen home;-
And Venus, oo, with all her wiles,
And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles,
All, ail are here, to hail with me
The Genius of Festivity!

XLIV.

BUDS of roses, virgin flowers,
Cull'd from Cupid's balmy bowers,
In the bowl of Bacchus steep,

Till with crimson drops they weep.
Twine the rose, the garland twine,
Every leaf distilling wine;
Drink and smile, and learn to think
That we were born to smile and drink.
Rose, thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower;
Rose, thou art the fondest child

Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild
Even the Gods, who walk the sky,
Are amorous of thy scented sigh.
Cupid, too, in Paphian shades,
His hair with rosy fillet braids,

When with the blushing, sister Graces,
The wanton winding dance he traces.
Then bring me, showers of roses bring,
And shed them o'er me while I sing,
Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine,
Wreathing my brow with rose and vine,
I lead some bright nymph through the dance,
Commingling soul with every glance.

And eyes that sparkle, eyes that weep,
Must all alike be seal'd in sleep.
Then let us never vainly stray,

In search of thorns, from pleasure's way.
But wisely quaff the rosy wave,
Which Bacchus loves, which Bacchus gave
And in the goblet, rich and deep,
Cradle our crying woes to sleep

XLVI.

BEHOLD, the young, the rosy Spring,
Gives to the breeze her scented wing;
While virgin Graces, warm with May,
Fling roses o'er her dewy way.
The murmuring billows of the deep
Have languish'd into silent sleep;
And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave
Their plumes in the reflecting wave;
While cranes from hoary winter fly
To flutter in a kinder skv.
Now the genial star of day
Dissolves the murky clouds away;
And cultur'd field, and winding stream,
Are freshly glittering in his beam

Now the earth prolific swells
With leafy buds and flowery bells;
Gemming shoots the olive twine,
Clusters ripe festoon the vine;
All along the branches creeping,
Through the velvet foliage peeping,
Little infant fruits we see,
Nursing into luxury.

XLVII.

'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet can I quaff the brimming wine, As deep as any stripling fair,

Whose cheeks the flush of morning wear; And if, amidst the wanton crew,

I'm call'd to wind the dance's clue,

Then shalt thou see this vigorous hand,

Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,

But brandishing a rosy flask,

The only thyrsus e'er I'll ask '

Let those, who pant for Glory's cnarms,
Embrace her in the field of arms;
While my inglerious, placid soul
Breathes not a wish beyond this bowl
Then fill it high, my ruddy slave,
And bathe me in its brimming wave.
For though my fading years decay,
Though manhood's prime hath pass'd as y
Like old Silenus, sire divine,

With blushes borrow'd from my wine,
I'll wanton 'mid the dancing train,
And live ny follies o'er again!

XLVIII.

WHEN my thirsty soul I steep,
Every sorrow's lull'd to sleep.
Talk of monarchs! I am then
Richest, happiest, first of men;
Careless o'er my cup I sing,
Fancy makes me more than king;
Gives me wealthy Croesus' store,
Can I, can I wish for more?
On my velvet couch reclining,
Ivy leaves my brow entwining,
While my soul expands with glee,
What are kings and crowns to me
If before my feet they lay,

I would spurn them all away
Arm ye, arm ye, men of might,
Hasten to the sanguine fight;
But let me, my budding vine!
Spill no other blood than thine

Yonder brimming goblet see, That alone shall vanquish meWho think it better, wiser far To fali in banquet than in war.

XLIX.

WHEN Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy,
The rosy harbinger of joy,

Who with the sunshine of the bowl,
Thaws the winter of our soul-
When to my inmost core he glides,
And bathes it with his ruby tides,
A flow of joy, a lively heat,

Fires my brain, and wings my feet,
Cailing up round me visions known
To lovers of the bowl alone.

Sing, sing of love, let music's sound In melting cadence float around, While, my young Venus, thou and I Responsive to its murmurs sigh. Then, waking from our blissful trance, Again we'll sport, again we'll dance.

L.

WHEN Wine I quaff, before my eyes
Dreams of poetic glory rise;
And freshen'd by the goblet's dews,
My soul invokes the heavenly Muse.
When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er;
I think of doubts and fears no more;
But scatter to the railing wind
Each gloomy phantom of the mind.
When I drink wine, th' ethereal boy,
Bacchus himself, partakes my joy;

And while we dance through vernal bowers,
Whose ev'ry breath comes fresh from flowers,
In wine he makes my senses swim,

Till the gale breathes of nought but him!

Again 1 drink, and, lo, there seems
A calmer light to fill my dreams;
The lately ruffled wreath I spread
With steadier hand around my head;
Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest
The life of him who lives at rest!"
But then comes witching wine again,
With glorious woman in its train;
And, while rich perfumes round me rise,
That seem the breath of woman's sighs,
Bright shapes, of every hue and form,
Upon my kindling fancy swarm,
Till the whole world of beauty seems
To crowd into my dazzled dreams!
When thus I drink, my heart refines,
And rises as the cup declines;
Rises in the genial flow,

That none but social spirits know,

When, with young revellers, round the bowl,

The old themselves grow young in soul.

Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine,
There's bliss in every drop of wine.
All other blessings I have known,
I scarcely dar'd to call my own;
But this the Fates can ne'er destroy,
Till death o'ershadows all my joy.

LI.

FLY not thus my bi w of snow,
Lovely wanton! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though youth's brilliant flush be thine,
Still I'm doom'd to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!
See, in yonder flowery braid,
Cull'd 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!

LII.

AWAY, away, ye 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
Some fond, responsive heart to mine,
For, 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!

LIII

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 forehead's 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!
Help to my lips the brimming bowl;
And you shall see this hoary sage
Forget at once his locks and age.
He still can chant the festive hymn,
He still can kiss the goblet's brim;
As deeply quaff, as largely fill,
And play the fool right nobly still.

LIV.

METHINKS, the pictur'd bull we see
Is amorous Jove-it must be he!
How fondly blest he seems to bear
That fairest of Phoenician 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!

LV

WHILE we invoke the wreathed spring,
Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing:
Whose breath perfumes th' Olympian bowers;
Whose virgin blush, of chasten'd dye,
Enchants so much our mortal eye.
When pleasure's spring-tide season glows,
The Graces love to wreathe the rose;
And Venus, in its fresh-blown leaves,
An emblem of herself perceives.
Oft hath the poet's magic tongue
The rose's fair luxuriance sung;
And long the Muses, heavenly maids,
Have rear'd it in their tuneful shades
When, at the early glance of morn,
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,

Tis sweet te dare the tangled fence,
To cull the timid flow'ret 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. There's nought in nature bright or gay, Where roses do not shed their ray. When morning paints the orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes; Young nymphs betray the rose's hue, O'er whitest arms it kindles through. In 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 even in death!

Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung?

Listen, for thus the tale is sung.

When, humid, from the silvery stream,

Effusing beauty's warmest beam,

Venus appeared, in flushing hues,

Mellow'd by ocean's briny dews;

When, in the starry courts above,
The pregnant brain of mighty Jove
Did he nymph of azure glance,

Tre by who shakes the martial lance ;-
Then, chen, in strange eventful hour,
The earth produc'd an infant flower,
Which sprung, in blushing glories drest,

And wanton'd o'er its parent breast.
The gods beheld this brilliant birth,
And hail'd the Rose, the boon of earth!
With nectar drops, a ruby tide,
The sweetly orient buds they died,

And bade them bloom, the flowers divine
Of him who gave the glorious vine;
And bade them on the spangled thorn
Expand their bosoms to the morn.

LVI.

He who instructs the youthful crew
To bathe them in the brimmer's dew,
And taste, uncloy'd by rich excesses,
All the bliss that wine possesses,
He, who inspires the youth to bound
Elastic through the dance's round,
Bacchus, the god again is here,
And leads along the blushing year;
The blushing year with vintage teems,
Ready to shed those cordial streams,
Which, sparkling in the cup of mirth.
Illuminate the sons of earth!

Then, when the ripe and vermil wine,Blest infant of the pregnant vine, Which now in mellow clusters swells,On! when it bursts its roseate cells, Brightly the joyous stream shall flow, To balsam every mortal woe!

None shall be then cast down or weak,

For health and joy shall light each cheek;
No heart will then desponding sigh,
For wine shall bid despondence fly.
Thus-till another autumn's glow
Shall bid another vintage flow.

LVII.

WHOSE was the artist hand that spread
Upon this disk the ocean's bed?
And, in a flight of fancy, high
As aught on earthly wing can fly.
Depicted thus, in semblance warm,
The Queen of Love's voluptuous form
Floating along the silv'ry sea

In beauty's naked majesty!

Oh! he hath given th' enamour'd sight

A witching banquet of delight,
Where, gleaming through the waters cler
Glimpses of undreamt harm apper,
And all that mystery loves to screel,
Fancy, like Faith, adores unseen.

Light as the leaf, that on the breeze,
Of summer skims the glassy seas,
She floats along the ocean's breast,
Which undulates in sleepy rest;
While stealing on, she gently pillows
Her bosom on the heaving billows.
Her bosom, like the dew-wash'd rose,
Her neck, like April's sparkling snows,
Illume the liquid path she traces,
And burn within the stream's embraces.
Thus on she moves, in languid pride,
Encircled by the azure tide,

As some fair lily o'er a bed

Of violets bends its graceful head.
Beneath their queen's inspiring glance,
The dolphins o'er the green sea dance,
Bearing in triumph young Desire,
And infant Love with smiles of fire!
While, glittering through the silver waves,
The tenants of the briny caves
Around the pomp their gambols play,
And gleam along the watery way.

LVIII.

When Gold, as fleet as zephyr's pinion
Escapes like any faithless minion,
And flies me (as he flies me ever,)
Do I pursue him? never, never!
No, let the false deserter go,
For who could court his direst foe?
But, when I feel my lighten'd mind
No more by grovelling gold confin'd,
Then loose I all such clinging cares,
And cast them to the vagrant airs.
Then feel I, too, the Muse's spell,
And wake to life the dulcet shell,
Which, rous'd once more, to beauty sings,
While love dissolves along the strings!

But scarcely has my heart been taught
How little Gold deserves a thought,
When, lo! the slave returns once more,
And with him wafts delicious store
Of racy wine, whose genial art
In slumber seals the anxious heart.
Again he tries my soul to sever
From love and song, perhaps for ever.

Away, deceiver! why pursuing Ceaseless thus my heart's undoing? Sweet is the song of amorous fire, Sweet the sighs that thrill the lyre; Oh! sweeter far than all the gold Thy wings can waft, thy mines can hold Well do I know thy arts, thy wilesThey wither'd Love's young wreathed smile; And o'er his lyre such darkness shed, I thought its soul of song was fled: They dash'd the wine-cup, that, by him, Was fill'd with kisses to the brim Go-fly to haunts of sordid men. But come not near the bard again.

RIPEN'D by the solar beam,
Now the ruddy clusters teem,
In osier baskets borne along
By all the festal vintage throng
Of rosy youths and virgins fair,

Ripe as the melting fruits they bear.

Now, now they press the pregnant grapes,
And now the captive stream escapes,
In fervid tide of nectar gushing,
And for its bondage proudly blushing!
While, round the vat's impurpled brim,
The choral song, the vintage hymn
Of rosy youths and virgins fair,
Steals on the charm'd and echoing air.

Mark, how they drink, with all their eyes,
The orient tide that sparkling flies,
The infant Bacchus, born in mirth,
While Love stands by, to hail the birth.

When he, whose verging years decline
As deep into the vale as mine,
When he inhales the vintage-cup,

His feet, new-wing'd from earth spring up,
And as he dances, the fresh air

Plays whispering through his silvery hair.
Meanwhile young groups whom love invites,
To joys ev'n rivalling wine's delights,
Seek, arm in arm, the shadowy grove,
And there, in words and looks of love,
Such as fond lovers look and say,
Pass the sweet moonlight hours a-vay.

LX.

AWAKE to life, my sleeping shell.
To Phoebus let thy numbers swell,
And though no glorious prize be thine,
No Pythian wreath around thee twine,
Yet every hour is glory's hour

To him who gathers wisdom's flower.

Then wake thee from thy voiceless slumbers,
And to the soft and Phrygian numbers,
Which, tremblingly, my lips repeat,
Send echoes from thy chord as sweet.
'Tis thus the swan, with fading notes,
Down the Cavster's current floats,
While amorous breezes linger round,
And sigh responsive sound for sound,

Muse of the Lyre! illume my dream,
Thy Phoebus is my fancy's theme;
And hallow'd is the harp I bear,
And hallow'd is the wreath I wear,
Hallow'd by him, the god of lays,
Who modulates the choral maze.
I sing the love which Daphne twin'd
Around the godhead's yielding mind;
I sing the blushing Daphne's flight
From this ethereal son of Light;
And how the tender, timid maid
Flew trembling to the kindly shade,
Resign'd a form, alas, too fair,
And grew a verdant laurel there;
Whose leaves, with sympathetic thrill,
In terror seem'd to tremble still!
The god pursu'd, with wing'd desire;
And when his hopes were all on fire,

And when to clasp the nymph he thought,
A lifeless tree was all he caught;
And, stead of sighs that pleasure heaves,
Heard but the west-wind in the leaves!

But, pause, my soul, no more, no more-
Enthusiast, whither do I soar?
This sweetly-mad'ning dream of soul
Hath hurried me beyond the goal.
Why should I sing the mighty darts
Which fly to wound celestial hearts,
When ah, the song, with sweeter tone,
Can tell the darts that wound my own?
Still be Anacreon, still inspire

The descant of the Teian lyre:
Still let the nectar'd numbers float,
Distilling love in every note!

And when some youth, whose glowing soul
Has felt the Paphian star's control,

When he the liquid lays shall hea,
His heart will flutter to his ear,
And drinking there of song divine,
Banquet on intellectual wine!

LXI.

YOUTH's endearing charms are fled
Hoary locks deform my head;
Bloomy graces, dalliance gay,
All the flowers of life decay.
Withering age begins to trace
Sad memorials o'er my face;
Time has shed its sweetest bloom,
All the future must be gloom.
This it is that sets me sighing;
Dreary is the thought of dying!
Lone and dismal is the road,
Down to Pluto's dark abode;
And, when once the journey's o'er,
Ah! we can return no more

LXII.

FILL me, boy, as deep a draught,
As e'er was fill'd, as e'er was quaff'd;
But let the water amply flow,
To cool the grape's intemperate glow;
Let not the fiery god be single,

But with the nymphs in union mingle.
For though the bowl's the grave of sadnese
Ne'er let it be the birth of madness
No, banish from our board to-night
The revelries of rude delight;

To Scythians leave these wild excesses,
Ours be the joy that soothes and blesses!
And while the temperate bowl we wreathe,
In concert let our voices breathe,
Beguiling every hour along
With harmony of soul and song.

LXIII.

To Love, the soft and blooming child,

I touch the harp in descant wild;
To Love, the babe of Cyprian bowers,
The boy, who breathes and blushes flowers,
To Love, for heaven and earth adore him,
And gods and mortals bow before him'

LXIV

HASTE thee, nymph, whose wel! aim'd spear Wounds the fleeting mountain deer!

Dian, Jove's immortal child,

Huntress of the savage wild!
Goddess with the sun-bright hair!
Listen to a people's prayer.

Turn, to Lethe's river turn,

There thy vanquish'd people mosin!