Has given the reckless sons a grave.
But tyrants weary of the steel,
And mourn the wounds they yet may heal.
Flow, generous wine—and smile, ye fair!
In you the earth forgets her care.
No more at Nature’s ills we’ll frown,
But welcome chant for smiling spring;
With roses from her wreath we crown
Our glowing temples while we sing.
Heedless of pallid slavery’s check,