Verses by John Frederick Bryant late tobacco-pipe maker at Bristol. Together with his life, written by himself |
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 | Verses by John Frederick Bryant |  |
Ye souls, who love to quaff the genial stream,
Whose wave inspires with mirth and joy supreme,
The gift of Ceres, whose maternal hand
Spreads the ripe harvest, waving o'er our land;
And you who wish to lull your cares with song,
Let bus'ness rest, and join the jovial throng,
Who, while my muse ascends in lofty rhyme,
Spurn earth's dull scenes, and soar with her sublime;
Whose flight divine the seats of joy explores,
Nor rests till high upon the happy shores,
Near St. John's sacred mansion , pleas'd, she finds,
Above the Worlds , a mansion to our minds;
Where fountains with nectareous liquids flow,
And plants of mirth to fruits of friendship grow;
Where Sol perpetual sheds his golden rays,
And Johnny Bush the rent and licence pays;
Who has provided us this ample room,
To which at length, I thank my stars, I'm come.
Whose wave inspires with mirth and joy supreme,
The gift of Ceres, whose maternal hand
Spreads the ripe harvest, waving o'er our land;
And you who wish to lull your cares with song,
Let bus'ness rest, and join the jovial throng,
Who, while my muse ascends in lofty rhyme,
Spurn earth's dull scenes, and soar with her sublime;
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Nor rests till high upon the happy shores,
Near St. John's sacred mansion , pleas'd, she finds,
Above the Worlds , a mansion to our minds;
Where fountains with nectareous liquids flow,
And plants of mirth to fruits of friendship grow;
Where Sol perpetual sheds his golden rays,
And Johnny Bush the rent and licence pays;
Who has provided us this ample room,
To which at length, I thank my stars, I'm come.
| Verses by John Frederick Bryant | |