 | A Collection of Original Poems |  |
108
A HYMN to BACCHUS.
Written in 1746.
Without love and wine, wit and beauty are vain,
All transport insipid, and pleasure a pain;
The most splendid palace grows dark as the grave:
Love and wine give, ye Gods, or take back what ye gave.
Comus.
All transport insipid, and pleasure a pain;
The most splendid palace grows dark as the grave:
Love and wine give, ye Gods, or take back what ye gave.
Comus.
Let others, in more lofty verse,
The sounding deeds of arms rehearse;
Sardinia's views, and Prussia's schemes,
My Muse delights in happier themes;
Let others Russia's councils tell,
And vainly labour to reveal,
The sounding deeds of arms rehearse;
Sardinia's views, and Prussia's schemes,
My Muse delights in happier themes;
Let others Russia's councils tell,
And vainly labour to reveal,
From France, with infidels combin'd,
Against the German eagle join'd,
How anxious Europe waits her doom,
How frowns the fate of Christendom:
I sing a more delightful strain,
Bacchus inspiring ev'ry vein.
Against the German eagle join'd,
How anxious Europe waits her doom,
How frowns the fate of Christendom:
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Bacchus inspiring ev'ry vein.
Blithe dispenser of my joy,
Thou who do'st my vows employ,
Bacchus, guardian of the Nine,
On me, oh! propitious shine;
With hallow'd ivy crown my brow;
Quick let the inspiration flow:
Thine can the soul from sadness raise,
To thee I consecrate my lays.
Thou who do'st my vows employ,
Bacchus, guardian of the Nine,
On me, oh! propitious shine;
With hallow'd ivy crown my brow;
Quick let the inspiration flow:
Thine can the soul from sadness raise,
To thee I consecrate my lays.
Thine's the choicest, richest blessing,
Poor the rest, nor worth possessing;
Thine the gen'rous purple flood,
That warms the heart, and fires the blood:
Poor the rest, nor worth possessing;
Thine the gen'rous purple flood,
That warms the heart, and fires the blood:
Inspir'd by thee, we more than live,
You to the Gods new glories give;
And ever blooming, young and fair,
Banish heart-corroding care.
You for the melting conflict arm,
Enhance the bliss, improve the charm;
You to the Gods new glories give;
And ever blooming, young and fair,
Banish heart-corroding care.
110
Enhance the bliss, improve the charm;
When Love and Wine their pow'rs unite,
The bosom's fill'd with soft delight.
What pleasures thrill thro' ev'ry vein,
While Love and Wine their pow'rs sustain;
Cupid's soft pleasures pall and die,
Should Wine's gay God his aid deny:
The bosom's fill'd with soft delight.
What pleasures thrill thro' ev'ry vein,
While Love and Wine their pow'rs sustain;
Cupid's soft pleasures pall and die,
Should Wine's gay God his aid deny:
He the warrior's breast inspires;
He the poet's fancy fires.
Queen of Love, invok'd, appear,
Bring thy fair attendants here;
Bring the nimble hours along;
Round thee let the graces throng;
He the poet's fancy fires.
Queen of Love, invok'd, appear,
Bring thy fair attendants here;
Bring the nimble hours along;
Round thee let the graces throng;
Laughing Cupids grace thy train:
Let us not invoke in vain.
Haste, Goddess, haste, nor thus delay,
Complete our joys!—Oh come away;
So shall thy vot'ries lowly bend,
Thy presence owning—quick descend.
Let us not invoke in vain.
Haste, Goddess, haste, nor thus delay,
Complete our joys!—Oh come away;
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Thy presence owning—quick descend.
For thee I touch the trembling string;
The rapture that I feel, I sing:
Pleasure here shall none control,
Thee awaits the sprightly bowl;
Bacchus, guardian of the feast,
Begs it may by thee be grac'd:
The rapture that I feel, I sing:
Pleasure here shall none control,
Thee awaits the sprightly bowl;
Bacchus, guardian of the feast,
Begs it may by thee be grac'd:
War's rough God too long detains;
Oh! list to our inviting strains;
Hark!—the cooing doves proclaim
The coming of the Cyprian dame.
Yonder mark the frolic swain,
Chaces Doris o'er the plain;
Oh! list to our inviting strains;
Hark!—the cooing doves proclaim
The coming of the Cyprian dame.
Yonder mark the frolic swain,
Chaces Doris o'er the plain;
Love within his bosom high,
Bacchus sparkling in his eye;
Deep in yonder shady grove,
Doris soon shall taste of love;
Free from witness, free from noise,
Cupid likes to pour his joys.
Bacchus sparkling in his eye;
Deep in yonder shady grove,
Doris soon shall taste of love;
112
Cupid likes to pour his joys.
From our feast is banish'd far,
Rude contest, and party war;
Hence, who with insulting strain,
Would our sacred rites profane!
For the bully's haughty air,
We have here no room to spare;
Sons of folly, sons of noise,
Fly, nor mar our hallow'd joys!
Rude contest, and party war;
Hence, who with insulting strain,
Would our sacred rites profane!
For the bully's haughty air,
We have here no room to spare;
Sons of folly, sons of noise,
Fly, nor mar our hallow'd joys!
With our transports we dispense
Ease, and mirth, and wit, and sense;
These our festive board supply,
Blest with love and jollity.
Ease, and mirth, and wit, and sense;
These our festive board supply,
Blest with love and jollity.
| A Collection of Original Poems | |