The Land of the Muses a poem, In the Manner of Spenser. With Poems on several Occasions. By Hugh Downman |
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A RANT. |
 | The Land of the Muses |  |
A RANT.
Wine, I feel thy rapt'ring power!Thine is all the present hour.
Strong Delight tumultuous reigns,
And throbs throughout my bursting veins.
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Every bar is thrown aside.
Prudence hence; it loaths to trace
The features of thy simpering face,
Thy sober-measur'd gait to spy,
And leaden joy-forbidding eye.
Prudence hence; thy laws I scorn,
Thou of mean Deceit art born,
By sly Hypocrisy begot;
Noble Frankness heeds thee not.
Yet though all my sallying soul
Expatiates wide, and hates controul;
Though my thoughts unbridled dare
Forward fly in wild career;
In their most impetuous course,
Let me, Reason, own thy force:
Though thou totter'st on thy throne,
Let me call thee still my own;
For so mad I would not be,
As quite to lose the sight of thee.
| The Land of the Muses | |