Come, lyrist! tune thy harp, and play
Responsive to my vocal lay;
Gently touch it while I sing
The rose, the glory of the spring.
To heaven the rose in fragrance flies,
The sweetest incense of the skies.
Thee, joy of earth! when vernal hours
Pour forth a blooming waste of flow'rs,
The gayly-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 song and tuneful lays,
Their fav'rite rose the Muses praise.
To pluck the rose the virgin-train

Io! the vintage now is done,
And black'ned with th' autumnal sun,
The grapes gay youths and virgins bear,
The sweetest product of the year!
In vats the heav'nly load they lay,
And swift the damsels trip away;
The youths alone the winepress tread,
For wine's by skilful drunkards made:
Meantime the mirthful song they raise,
To! Bacchus to thy praise;
And eyeing the blest juice, in thought
Quaff an imaginary draught.
Gayly thro' wine the old advance,
And doubly tremble in the dance:
In fancy'd youth they chant and play,

See, see, the jolly god appears,
His hand a mighty goblet bears;
With sparkling wine full-charg'd, it flows,
The sov'reign cure of human woes.
Wine gives a kind release from care,
And courage to subdue the fair,
Instructs the cheerful to advance,
Harmonious in the sprightly dance.
Hail, goblet! rich with gen'rous wines;
See, round the verge a vinebranch twines:
See, how the mimic clusters roll,
As ready to refil the bowl!
Wine keeps its happy patients free
From ev'ry painful malady;
Our best physician all the year,

Necessity, whom long I deemed my foe,
Thou cold, unsmiling, and hard-visaged dame,
Now I no longer see thy face, I know
Thou wert my friend beyond reproach or blame.

My best achievements and the fairest flights
Of my winged fancy were inspired by thee;
Thy stern voice stirred me to the mountain heights;
Thy importunings bade me do and be.

But for thy breath, the spark of living fire
Within me might have smoldered out at length;
But for thy lash which would not let me tire,
I never would have measured my own strength.

Friend to his Country! — to Religion's cause —
On Earth he fought, and conquer'd with applause;
But still on Heaven he fix'd his ardent sight;
The faithful Christian fought a nobler fight!
And safe has reach'd that everlasting shore,
Where storms are heard and billows beat no more.

Farewell, Great D UNCAN ! while the sea shall lave,
Rever'd Britannia with its azure wave,
Thy glorious mem'ry, with the world's esteem,
Shall o'er her trophies cast a radiant gleam,
And gild them with a ray celestial too,

The gaze of rapture, Ignorance may bestow,
When faithless Fancy bids her pageants glow,
And decks fallacious gems with lustre bright,
To emulate the diamond's genuine light.
But Science scorns such poor and trivial praise —
On more than fairy ground she plants her bays;
She trims the midnight lamp with higher views,
And matron Beauty decks her classic muse.
Oh thou! to Nature, Truth, and Learning dear!
'Tis luxury from the wise thy praise to hear;
'Tis more than this, to feel thy nobler claim —
On Virtue's sacred shelf to see thy name!

Fair Gratitude! thou glowing friend of Truth,
Bright with the ardour of unfading Youth!
When Kindness pours its balm with graceful art.
To heal the sorrows of the wounded heart —
Come to my aid — the languid Muse inspire —
Come with thy vivid spark, thy verse of fire!
And next to Heaven, where first the tribute's due,
Turn from the faithless world, to ONE that's true.
I call thee, Sense and Goodness to proclaim,
Temper'd and bright, and polish'd as his name!
Though terror oft attends the warlike sound,

Send to the Muse, and each enliv'ning art,
Which cheers repose, and soothes the drooping heart,
Which softens friendship, which appeases strife,
And scatters roses o'er the path of life! —
Like from her grateful hand, ('tis sure thy claim)
As humble flow'r to deck thy wreath of fame,

That glowing wreath, which Justice must allow,
More bright than diamonds on the soldier's brow.
'Tis hardly earn'd! — The fight, the foaming deep,
And Afric's sands, which roll their burning heap,
The savage shore, and India's sultry glow,

Oh! come to these fond arms ne'er to depart,
Thou light of this care-fraught, and desolate heart;
Far, far from the world and its coldness we'll flee,
A desert is sunshine, if brighten'd by thee .

I reck not if jewels or gems are thy fate,
Or if high birth thy womanish soul doth elate,
If the heart thou wilt give me, will closely entwine
With the one which now throbs in this bosom of mine.

Give me Homer's tuneful lyre,
Let the sound my breast inspire!
But with no troublesome delight
Of arms and heroes slain in fight:
Let it play no conquests here,
Or conquests only o'er the fair.
Boy, reach that volume—book divine!
The statutes of the god of wine!
He, legislator, statutes draws,
And I, his judge, enforce his laws,
And, faithful to the weighty trust,
Compel his vot'ries to be just.
Thus, round the bowl impartial flies
Till to the sprightly dance we rise:
We frisk it with a lively bound,