Classic Poem

Let the beaker stand!—My blood's in flames!
Fed by th' ethereal spirit of the vine,
No more!—I have sprung where Genius claims
Dominion next to prophecy,
Where souls of inspiréd Bards do hie;
But nought beyond that latter cup, which made this glory mine,
Belongs unto the Nine,
I'll quaff a softer, lovelier juice—there's madness in the wine!

Bind me a wreath, my blooming boy!
Of crimson buds, and Venus' lovely tree,
Of snow-capped lilies, bursting into joy,
At twining blood-roses and myrtles for me.
Spread me a couch too, and spread it of sweet flowers,
Spread me it broad, that the Nymph may recline;
Yet blush not ye roses, though, mid these dark bowers,
She dare, e'en to press her dewy lip to mine.

Love is the breath that blest Saints sigh,
On am'ranth beds, the heav'nly streams among,
Yet nought unholy's whisper'd i' the sky,
Though flow'rs grew, expressive, or streams found a tongue.
Spread me a couch then, and spread it of sweet flowers,
Spread me it broad, that the Nymph may recline;
Yet droop not, ye lilies, though, mid these dark bowers,
She dare, e'en to press her downy cheek to mine.

Hark!—in the boughs, the wind-lyre sings
Of broken hearts—its voice is lovers' sighs;
And ever as burst the sorrows of its strings,
A lost maid laments! or a luckless lover dies.
Spread me a couch then, and spread it of sweet flowers,
Spread me it broad, that the Nymph may recline;
Yet sigh not, sweet Æol, though, mid these dark bowers,
She dare, e'en to press her snowy breast to mine.