Avaunt! thou fiend, pale melancholy!

We are mortals free and jolly,
Who delight to lose the foul,
In the joy-infpiring bowl-
Fill the foaming chalice high,
Till it speak with extasy ;
With rofy garland crown the wine,
And steep Nepenthe, herb divine,
In the bright nectareous cup,
Till it fwallow sadness up.

Wine can dulleft mortals raife,
To deeds of glory, deeds of praife;
If the warrior's breaft it warms,
Quick he burns for glorious arms,
And nightly dreams of battles dire,
Of giants huge in steel attire;
Battlements he, proud, o'erthrows,
And rides amidst a thousand foes.
Thus, when Philip's dauntless fon,
With his drinking bouts had done,
He rush'd a whirlwind on the plain,
And mountain'd it with heaps of flain.
If wine infpires the tuneful band,
Who can the glowing strain withstand?

Floods,

Floods of mufic, all divine,

Pour along in every line;

And the wild Dithyrambic ftrain,
Rufhes thro' the poet's brain.
Alcæus lov'd the purple juice;
Sprightly Flaccus felt its ufe
And the sweet Anacreon,

Warbled best when half-feas gone.
Ivy-crown'd BACCHUS hail!
And, o'er my reeling fong prevail !

SONG.

I.

EXTEMPORE.

HE fprightly eye, the rofy cheek,

TH

The dimpled chin, and look fo meek,

The nameless grace and air;

The ruby lip in fweetnefs dreft,

The foftly-fwelling angel breast

All these adorn my fair!

II.

See what unnumber'd beauties rove

Around each feature of my love,

And fire my rapt'rous foul!

Ten theufand fweets her looks disclose;

At ev'ry look my bofom glows,

And yields to love's control.

III.

Juft heav'ns! why gave ye charms like these,

With ev'ry graceful art to please,

To her whom rigid fate,

Permits me not my pain to tell,

And makes me facred truth conceal

. From one I wish my mate.

IV.

Curfe on the fordid thirft of gold!
When tend'reft paffions all are fold
To win the world's applause;
When, for defire, and love, and joy,
Low interest shall our hours employ,
And gain th' ignoble cause.

SONG.

TO SYLVIA.

A SON G,

After her recovery from a fit of fickness.

WHE

I.

HEN at bleak WINTER'S ftern command,
Fair nature's blooming beauties fade,

And the fad groves all leafless stand,

And wither'd is each pleasing shade;

II.

No nightingale, or linnet gay,

Is heard to wake the sprightly strain, No turtle pours her love-lorn lay,

To footh the foul of am'rous swain.

III.

But when the jovial hours appear,
That ufher in the vernal breeze,

When young-ey'd fpring bedecks the year,
And clothes in verdant robe the trees;

IV. The

IV.

The feather'd chorifters prepare
To fwell the gratulating fong,
While thro' the foft expanfe of air,
Wild Mufic fweetly floats along.

V.

So when my Sylvia, lovely maid!
Is by the touch of sickness pain'd,
When on her cheeks the rofes fade,

And with pale white her lips are ftain'd

VI.

Oh then! my heart, oppreff'd with woe
And inward anguish, pines away;
Nor from my lips' does music flow,
A stranger to the warbling lay-

VII.

But if the charming nymph renews

The lively look, and health's foft bloom;

Into

my breaft it does infuse

New life, and diffipates my gloom.

VIII. Soon