Like young Apollo’s with his golden beams;
There should Apollo’s bays be budding now:—
And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams,
That marks the poet in his waking dreams.
When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker,
He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.
“They throng around me now, those things of air,
That from my fancy took their being’s stamp:
There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,
There Clifford lends his pals upon the tramp;