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In vats the heavenly load they lay,
And fwift the damfels trip away:
The youths alone the wine-prefs tread,
For wine 's by skilful drunkards made :
Meantime the mirthful fong they raise,
Io! Bacchus, to thy praise!
And, eying the bleft juice, in thought
Quaff an imaginary draught.
Gaily through wine the old advance,
And doubly tremble in the dance :
In fancy'd youth they chant and play,
Forgetful that their locks are grey.
Through wine, the youth compleats his loves;
He haunts the filence of the groves:
Where, ftretch'd beneath th' embowering fhade,
He fpies fome love-infpiring maid;
On beds of rofy fweets fhe lies,
Inviting fleep to close her eyes:
Faft by her fide his limbs he throws,
Her hand he preffes---breathes his vows;
And cries, My love, my foul, comply
This inftant, or, alas! I die.
In vain the youth perfuafion tries!
In vain!-her tongue at least denies :
Then scorning death through dull despair,
He ftorms th' unwilling willing fair:
Bleffing the grapes that could difpenfe
The happy, happy impudence.
O DE LIII. The Ros L.
COME, lyrift, tune thy harp, and play
Refponfive to my vocal lay:
Gently touch it, while I fing
The Rofe, the glory of the fpring.
To heaven the Rofe in fragrance flet,
The sweetest incenfe of the skies,
Thee, joy of earth, when vernai hours
Pour forth a blooming wafte of flowers,
The gaily-smiling Graces wear
A trophy in their flowing hair.
Thee Venus queen of beauty loves,
And crown'd with thee more graceful moves.
In fabled fong, and tuneful lays,
Their favourite Rofe the Mufes praife:
To pluck the Rofe, the virgin-train
With blood their pretty fingers ftain,
Nor dread the pointed terrors round,
That threaten, and inflict a wound :
See! how they wave the charming toy,
Now kifs, now fnuff the fragrant joy!
The Rofe the poets ftrive to praife,
And for it would exchange their bays;
O! ever to the sprightly feast
Admitted, welcome, pleafing gueft!
But chiefly when the goblet flows,
And Rofy wreathes adorn our brows!
Lovely fmiling Rofe, how fweet
The object where thy beauties meet!
Aurora with a blushing ray,
And Rofy-fingers, spreads the day :
The Graces more enchanting show,
When Rofy blushes paint their snow,
And every pleas'd beholder feeks
The Rofe in Cytherea's cheeks.
When pain afflicts, or fickness grieves,
Its juice the drooping heart relieves,
And, after death, its odours shed
A pleafing fragrance o'er the dead:
And when its withering charms decay,
And finking, fading, die away,
Triumphant o'er the rage of time,
It keeps the fragrance of its prime.
Come, lyrift, join to fing the birth
Of this fweet offspring of the earth !
When Venus from the ocean's bed
Rais'd o'er the waves her lovely head;
When warlike Pallas fprung from Jove,
Tremendous to the powers above,
grace the world the teeming earth
Gave the fragrant infant birth,
And This, the cry'd, I this ordain
My favourite, queen of flowers to reign!"
But first th' assembled gods debate
The future wonder to create :
Agreed at length from heaven they threw
A drop of rich, nectareous dew,
A bramble-stem the drop receives,
And ftrait the Rofe adorns the leaves.
The gods to Bacchus gave the flower, To grace him in the genial hour.
O DE LIV. Grown YoUNG.
WHEN fprightly youths my eyes survey,
I too am young, and am gay:
In dance my active body swims,
And sudden pinions lift my limbs.
Hafte, crown, Cybaba, crown my brows
With garlands of the fragrant rose!
Hence, hoary age !---I now am strong,
And dance, a youth among the young.
Come then, my friends, the goblet drain!
Bleft juice !---I feel thee in each vein !
See! how with active bounds I spring!
How ftrong, and yet how sweet, I fing!
How bleft am I who thus excell
In pleafing arts of trifling well!
HE ftately fteed expreffive bears
A mark imprinted on his hairs:
The turban that adorns the brows
Of Afia's fons, the Parthian shows:
And marks betray the lover's heart,
Deeply engrav'd by Cupid's dart:
I plainly read them in his eyes,
That look too foolish or too wife,
LAS! the powers of life decay!
My hairs are fall'n, or changed to grey
The fmiling bloom, and youthful grace,
Is banish'd from my faded face !
Thus man beholds, with weeping eyes,
Himfelf half-dead before he dies.
For this, and for the grave, I fear,
And pour the never-ceafing tear!
A dreadful profpect strikes my eye,
I foon must ficken, foon must die.
For this the mournful groan I shed,
I dread-alas! the hour I dread!
What eye can ftedfastly survey
Death, and its dark tremendous way?
For foon as fate has clos'd our eyes,
Man dies for ever, ever dies!
All pale, all fenfeless in the urn!
Never, ah! never to return.
O DE LXIV. To APOLLO.
ONCE more, not uninspir'd, the string
I waken, and fpontaneous fing:
No Pythic laurel-wreath I claim,
That lifts ambition into fame:
My voice unbidden tunes the lay:
Some god impells, and I obey.