Teeming inebriate joy! whose tendrils bloom
Crisp-woven in winding trail, now green entwine
This pillar’s top, this mount, Anacreon’s tomb.
As lover of the feast, the untempered bowl,
While the full draught was reeling in his soul,
He smote upon the harp, whose melodies
Were tuned to girlish loves, till midnight fled;
Now, fallen to earth, embower him as he lies,
Thy purpling clusters blushing o’er his head:
Still be fresh dew upon the branches hung,