Fly, and cool my goblet's glow At yonder fountain's gelid flow; I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink

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This soul to slumber as I drink!

Soon, too soon, my jocund slave, You'll deck your master's gra.s.sy grave; And there's an end--for ah! you know They drink but little wine below!

_ODE XXVII._

See the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her spangled wing; While virgin Graces, warm with May, Fling roses o'er her dewy way!

The murmuring billows of the deep Have languished into silent sleep; And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave Their plumes in the reflecting wave; While cranes from h.o.a.ry winter fly To flutter in a kinder sky.

Now the genial star of day

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Dissolves the murky clouds away; And cultur'd field, and winding stream, Are sweetly tissued by his beam.

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

_ODE XXVIII._

'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet I can quaff the br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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, Thou shall behold this vigorous hand, Not faltering on the Bacchant's wand,

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But brandishing a rosy flask, The only Thyrsus e'er I'll ask!

Let those who pant for Glory's charms, Embrace her in the held of arms; While my inglorious placid soul Breathes not a wish beyond the bowl.

Then fill it high, my ruddy slave, And bathe me in its honied wave!

For though my fading years decay, And though my bloom has pa.s.sed away, Like old Silenus, sire divine, With blushes borrowed from my wine, I'll wanton 'mid the dancing train, And live my follies all again!

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_ODE XXIX._

When I drink, I feel, I feel, Visions of poetic zeal!

Warm with the goblet's fresh'ning dews, My heart invokes the heavenly Muse.

When I drink my 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, 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, begemm'd 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;

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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!

_ODE x.x.x._

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!

'Oh, 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

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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?'

_ODE x.x.xI._

Let us drain the nectar'd bowl, Let us raise the song of soul To him, the G.o.d who loves so well The nectar'd 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!

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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 nectar'd bowl, And swell the choral song of soul To him, the G.o.d who loves so well The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!