When I drink, the jesting boy
Bacchus himself partakes my joy;

And while we dance through breathing bowers,
Whose every gale is rich with flowers,
In bowls he makes my senses swim,

Till the gale breathes of nought but him!
When I drink, I deftly twine

Flowers, begemmed with tears of wine:
And, while with festive hand I spread
The smiling garland round my head,
Something whispers in my breast,
How sweet it is to live at rest!
When I drink, and perfume stills
Around me all in balmy rills,
Then as some beauty, smiling roses,
In languor on my breast reposes,
Venus! I breathe my vows to thee
In many a sigh of luxury!
When I drink, my heart refines,
And rises as the cup declines;
Rises in the genial flow

That none but social spirits know,

When youthful revellers, round the bowl.
Dilating, mingle soul with soul!
When I drink, the bliss is mine;
There's bliss in every drop of wine!
All other joys that I have known,
I've scarcely dared to call my own;
But this the Fates can ne'er destroy
Till death o'ershadows all my joy!

ODE LI.

FLY not thus my brow of snow,
Lovely wanton ! fly not so.
Though the wane of age is mine,
Though the brilliant flush is thine,
Still I'm doomed to sigh for thee,
Blest, if thou couldst sigh for me!
See, in yonder flowery braid,
Culled for thee, my blushing maid.
How the rose, of orient glow,
Mingles with the lily's snow;
Mark, how sweet their tints agree,
Just, my girl, like thee and me!

ODE LII.

AWAY, away, you men of rules,
What have I to do with schools?

Which en
Thus, Mary

While but
I'll love thost =
That bless my

The day had suni I
But midnight nev
Illumed all the par 2
Like hope upor z r.
I said (whit

The moon's smitt
Played o'er a stream.
"The moor. 19015
On many brooks

The brook can see n
And thus, I thought, our

For many a lover looks
While oh! I feel there b

One Mary in the world for me

ILL OMENS.

WHEN daylight was yet sleeping under the
And stars in the heavens still lingering
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her p

The last time she e'er was to press it
For the youth whom she treasured her hear and her
Had promised to link the last tie before moca:
And when once the young heart of a maiten is st.len,
The maiden herself will steal after it soot

As she looked in the glass which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly, fresh from the night flower's kisses,
Flew over the mirror and shaded ber view.
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces.

She brushed him-he fell, alas never to rise

"Ah! such," said the girl, is the pride of our faces,
For which the soul's innocence too often dies."

While she stole through the garden, where heart's-ease was growing,

She culled some, and kissed off its night-fallen dew;

"Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moot, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together."-Whiston's Theory, &c.

In the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with the words, “Non mille quɔd absens.”

This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works:-"The moon looks upon many night flowers, the night flowers see but one moon."

An emblem of the soul.

They'd make me learn, they'd make me think,
But would they make me love and drink?
Teach me this, and let me swim
My soul upon the goblet's brim;
Teach me this, and let me twine
My arms around the nymph divine!
Age begins to blanch my brow,
I've time for nought but pleasure now.
Fly, and cool my goblet's glow
At yonder fountain's gelid flow;
I'll quaff, my boy, and calmly sink
This soul to slumber as I drink!
Soon, too soon, my jocund slave,
You'll deck your master's grassy grave;
And there's an end- for ah! you know
They drink but little wine below!

ODE LIII.

WHEN I behold the festive train
Of dancing youth, I'm young again!
Memory wakes her magic trance,
And wings me lightly through the dance.
Come, Cybeba, smiling maid!

Cull the flower and twine the braid;

Bid the blush of summer's rose

Burn upon my brow of snows;

And let me, while the wild and young
Trip the mazy dance along,
Fling my heap of years away,
And be as wild, as young as they.
Hither haste, some cordial soul!
Give my lips the brimming bowl:
Oh! you will see this hoary sage
Forget his locks, forget his age.
He still can chant the festive hymn,
He still can kiss the goblet's brim ;
He still can act the mellow raver,
And play the fool as sweet as ever!

ODE LIV.

METHINKS, the pictured bull we see
Is amorous Jove-it must be he!
How fondly blest he seems to bear
That fairest of Phoenician fair!
How proud he breasts the foamy tide,
And spurns the billowy surge aside!
Could any beast of vulgar vein,
Undaunted thus, defy the main?
No: he descends from climes above,
He looks the god, he breathes of Jove!

WHILE we invoke the wreathed spring,
Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;
Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers,
Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers
Whose virgin blush, of chastened dye,
Enchants so much our mortal eye.
When pleasure's bloomy season glows,
'The Graces love to twine the rose;
The rose is warm Dione's bliss,
And flushes like Dione's kiss!
Oft has the poet's magic tongue
The rose's fair luxuriance sung;
And long the Muses, heavenly maids,
Have reared it in their tuneful shades.
When, at the early glance of morn,
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,
'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence,
To cull the timid floweret thence,
And wipe with tender hand away
The tear that on its blushes lay!
'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,
Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,
And fresh inhale the spicy sighs
That from the weeping buds arise.
When revel reigns, when mirth is high,
And Bacchus beams in every eye,
Our rosy fillets scent exhale,
And fill with balm the fainting gale!
Oh! there is nought in nature bright,
Where roses do not shed their light!
When morning paints the orient skies,
Her fingers burn with roseate dyes;
The nymphs display the rose's charms,
It mantles o'er their graceful arms;
Through Cytherea's form it glows,
And mingles with the living snows.
The rose distils a healing balm,
The beating pulse of pain to calm ;
Preserves the cold inurnèd clay,
And mocks the vestige of decay:
And when at length, in pale decline,
Its florid beauties fade and pine,
Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath
Diffuses odour e'en in death!

Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung?
Attend-for thus the tale is sung.

When, humid, from the silvery stream,

Effusing beauty's warmest beam,

Venus appeared, in flushing hues,

Mellowed by ocean's briny dews: