Classic Poem

Hence with sorrow, spleen and care !
Muse, awake the jocund air ;
Wreathe thy brows in myrtle twine,
And assist the gay design ;
Strike the trembling string with pleasure,
Till it found the enchanting measure.
Avaunt ! thou fiend, pale melancholy !
We are mortals free and jolly,
Who delight to lose the soul,
In the joy-inspiring bowl —
Fill the foaming chalice high,
Till it speak with extasy ;
With rosy garland crown the wine,
And steep Nepenthe, herb divine,
In the bright nectareous cup,
Till it swallow sadness up.

Wine can dullest mortals raise,
To deeds of glory, deeds of praise ;
If the warrior's breast 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 son,
With his drinking bouts had done,
He rush'd a whirlwind on the plain,
And mountain'd it with heaps of slain.
If wine inspires the tuneful band,
Who can the glowing strain withstand ?
Floods of music, all divine,
Pour along in every line ;
And the wild Dithyrambic strain,
Rushes thro' the poet's brain.
Alcaeus lov'd the purple juice ;
Sprightly Flaccus felt its use ;
And the sweet Anacreon,
Warbled best when half-seas gone.
Ivy-crown'd B ACCHUS hail !
And, o'er my reeling song prevail !