ANACREONTIC.
——————
Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear, While yonder Censor mounts the chair: His form erect, his stately pace, His huge, white wig, his solemn face, His scowling brows, his ken severe, His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer, Some high Philosopher declare:— Hush! let us hear him from the chair: 'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth; How ill-beseeming sons of earth! Know ye not well the fate of man? That death is certain, life a span? That merriment soon sinks in sorrow, Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow? Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice, That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?' Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine, Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine. Since mortals must die, Since life's but a span, 'Tis wisdom, say I, To live while we can, And fill up with pleasure The poor little measure. Of fate to complain How simple and vain! Long faces I hate; They shorten the date. My Friends! while ye may, Be jovial to-day; The things that will be Ne'er wish to foresee; Or, should ye employ Your thoughts on to-morrow, Let Hope sing of joy, Not Fear croak of sorrow. But see! the Sage flies, so no more. Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before.

ANACREONTIC.
——————
Why must Poets, when they sing, Drink of the Castalian spring? Sure 'tis chilling to the brain; Witness many a modern strain: Poets! would ye sing with fire, Wine, not water, must inspire. Come, then, pour thy purple stream, Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme. How within thy crystal frame Does the rosy nectar flame! Not so beauteous on the vine Did the clustering rubies shine, When the potent God of day Fill'd them with his ripening ray; When with proudness and delight Bacchus view'd the charming sight. Still it keeps Apollo's fires; Still the vintage-God admires. Hail sweet antidote of wo! Chiefest blessing mortals know! Nay, the mighty powers divine Own the magic force of wine. Wearied with the world's affairs, Jove himself, to drown his cares, Bids the nectar'd goblet bear: Lo! the youthful Hebe fair Pours the living draught around;— Hark! with mirth the skies resound. 'Tis to wine, for aught I know, Deities their godship owe; Don't we mortals owe to wine Manhood, and each spark divine? Say, thou life-inspiring Bowl, Who thy heavenly treasure stole? Not the hand that stole Jove's fire Did so happily aspire; Tell the lucky spoiler's name, Worthy never-dying fame. Since it must a secret be, Him I'll praise, in praising thee. Glory of the social treat! Source of friendly converse sweet! Source of cheerfulness and sense, Humour, wit, and eloquence, Courage and sincerity, Candour and philanthropy! Source of—O thou bounteous wine! What the good that is not thine? Were my nerves relax'd and low? Did my chill blood toil on slow? When thy spirit through me flows, How each vital function glows! Tuned, my nerves, no longer coy, Answer to the touch of joy: On the steams, that from thee rise, Time on swifter pinions flies; Fancy gilds them with her rays; Hope amid the rainbow plays. But behold! what Image bright Rises heavenly to my sight! Could such wondrous charms adorn Venus, when from ocean born? Say, my Julia, is it thou, Ever lovely, loveliest now? Yet, methinks, the Cyprian Queen Comes herself, but takes thy mien. Goddess! I confess thy power, And to love devote the hour, Let me but, with grateful soul, Greet once more the bounteous Bowl.

SONG.
——————
Ere Reason rose within my breast,
To enforce her sacred law, Still would some charm, in every maid, My veering passions draw. But now, to calm those gales of night, The morn her light displays; The twinkling stars no more I view, For only Venus sways: The spotless heaven of genuine love Unveil'd I wondering see, And all that heaven, transported, claim For Julia and for me.

SONG.
——————
Yes, I could love, could softly yield To passion all my willing breast, And fondly listen to the voice That oft invites me to be blest; That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss, Stands gazing on the form divine, So sweetly whispers to my soul, O make the heavenly Julia thine! But hush, thou fascinating voice! Hence visionary extacy! Yes, I could love, but ah! I fear She would not deign to smile on me.

SONG TO BACCHUS.
——————
Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay; See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd? See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to pay Their devotion to thee, are all waiting around? O come then, propitious to our invocation, To preside of thy rites at the solemnization. Hark! the voice of Champagne, from its prison set free, And the music of glasses that merrily ring, Thy arrival announce, and invite us to glee; With what gladness we welcome thee, vine-crowned King! To honour thee, Bacchus! we pour a libation, And the lofty roof echoes our loud salutation. On that wine-loaded altar, erected to thee, Sherry, burgundy, claret, invitingly shine; While all thy rich gifts thus collected we see, We greet thy munificence boundless, divine. From these we already inhale animation, Our hearts and heads warmth, and our souls elevation. As thy nectar, kind Bacchus! more copiously flows, We purge off the cold dregs that are earthy, profane; Each breast with thy own godlike character glows; There truth, generosity, happiness reign. Hail Bacchus! we hail thee in high exultation; Thou hast blest us, kind God! with thy full inspiration.