University of Virginia Library

Friend to the wish'd enlarg'd, and flowing bowl,
Thou genuine son,
Of old Anacreon,
Thus let the muse address thy social soul:
Spirit of Horace, swift attend;
Poet of jollity, descend:
Oh come, ye vine-crown'd pow'rs, which Comus lends
To all his nectar-quaffing friends!
Ever joyous, ever gay,
When on some potation day,
The rosy godhead takes the chair,
And drowns in seas of drink, the fiend Despair.
'Tis then the mantling cup, allays the lover's smart,
And pours a sweet oblivion on the merry heart:
Then Grief, and pining Care, and haggard Pain
Hang their dejected heads in conscious shame,
The foes of Joy have caught the sound,
And not a sigh is heard around:
Dark-brow'd Melancholy steals away,
As spectres fly the dawning day:
Low'ring Discontent is gone,
As clouds avoid the rising sun.
Then come, thou Goddess, ever free,
Offspring of humanity,
Come fair hospitality,
Thee I invoke, I kneel to thee!
Let fair Good nature grace thy side,
And blythsome Joy, thy blooming bride;
Enamour'd of thy Murray's name,
Thee I invoke, seraphic dame!
Oh sing, the boundless wishes of his mind
Extending wide, the bumper to mankind;
Oh sing, how all that flinches, he disdains,
How scorns the miser's muddling gains.
While foe to all that's low or mean,
Even in the tide of jollity,
Where strongly flows festivity,
Sense guides the current, and corrects the scene.
Or if, perchance, a luckless wight,
Unequal to the liquid sight,
High sprung by Mirth, should haply reel,
And topple from the head to heel:
If he should grow supremely wise,
And things dance double in his eyes,
Soon as the vanquish'd hero's down,
Murray declares he shall not drown;
But, in sad pity to his puny head,
The victor sends the conquer'd corpse to bed.
There, in Lethean slumbers bury'd deep,
The flushing warrior wooes the power of sleep,
Repairs his loss—wakes dry in every vein,
And loudly calls for Murray, and Champaign.
The soldier thus, in heat of wars,
Sunk by the forceful fall to ground,
Soon as recover'd from his scars,
E'er well the smart has left the wound,
Again he rages for the glorious fray,
Blazes again in arms, and wins the well-fought day.

Yon pillars mark the festive dome,
Where all the free a welcome find;
There, is the season'd head at home,
And in each glass shines out the master's mind.

Drink deep, and quaff pleasure,
No mixture, no measure;
All the lovers of wine,
Seize the goblet and join:
Forget in yon mansion the dull cares of life,
The Flask be your mistress, the Bottle your wife,

Yet some there are no easy entrance gain,
Slaves that disgrace his door,
Shall never enter more,
But meet the Gods magnanimous disdain,
Let not the milksop come,
But sip his tea at home;
Let not the silken fop be there,
But take with pale-fac'd Miss the air;
Unless, perchance, the sons of wine,
Full of frolic, wit, and whim,
Shall meditate some arch design,
To take the Petit-maitre in.
Then waggish Momus shakes each younthful side,
As the smug coxcomb sits in powder'd pride.
For lo the president in state,
Drenches the snowy pate:
At first the fop, with caution drinks;
The toasts go round with nods and winks:
Soon grows the maccaroni flush'd,
You'd swear his maiden sister blush'd;
A general hectic shakes his head,
And down he falls among th' inglorious dead.
His silver vestments sweep the various ground;
His curls, disorder'd, in the splash are drown'd;
Paint, perfumes, patches, stain the Fopling o'er;
And all the happy Table's in a roar—:

Thus, when the gilded butterfly,
Array'd in Summer's silken trim,
On pots of treacle casts its eye,
And sips the sweets upon the brim.
The honey'd coxcomb fluttering round,
Pleas'd with the taste, now ventures round,
The yielding bottom limes his feet;
No fop e'er died a death more sweet:
His mealy wings, and glossy coat,
His shining back, and downy throat,
Blacken'd and stain'd, alas, now mixes with the stream.
But soft a while!—methinks I hear
Friendship's note assail the ear:
Loud and sincere from joys rebound,
I hear the mingled mirth go round.
Come, then, muse, and pen, begone!
Come, Thalia, and be gay,
Meet our young Anacreon,
Ripe as June, and blythe as May:
Leave sober sadness, and the world behind,
And meet thy Murray, with a Murray's mind.