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Give me of the flowing bowl
Not to mad, but cheer my soul;
Give me with a gen'rous friend
Life's wisest, happiest hours to spend ;
Give me Lucy to adore-
Lucy me! I ask no more.

ODE XVI.

LET others sing in lofty strains Of battles fought on German plains ; Let others in elegiac verse The fate of gallant Wolfe rehearse; When climbing up the craggy steep Of Sill’ry, frowning o'er the deep, The hero for his country died, With Vict'ry bleeding by his side: My own encounters wake my string; My own disastrous fate I sing.,

Not the horse's armed heel, Not the Indian's savage steel, Not the sword in terrour bare, Not the thunder of the war, Not the bayonet's deadly thrust Laid me breathless in the dust; Slain by other arms I die. My death was sent from Lucy's eye,

ODE I..

Or Marlb'rough's deeds on Flandria's plain, Where many a shade of hero slain, Wand’ring by the pale-ey'd moon In mournful mood their fate bemoan, I meant to sing with epic fire ; To epic strains I tun'd my lyre : In vain! the chords rebellious prove, And nought they sound but gentle love.

Again the Muse my soul possessid, And Eugene's glory fires my breast; Or when by Danube's rapid wave, Or by Tibiscus, or the Save, Th’imperial eagle soar'd around, And dash'd the crescent to the ground; Or when his brave unconquer'd arm The Gallic tyrant did disarin :Of these I proudly thought to sing, And chang'd my lyre, and chang'd each string; But nought avails! The wanton Boy Attunes each note to love and joy, In such a softly soothing strain As maidens sigh their absent swain, When melting.whispers breathe around, And echo hangs upon the sound,

I yield II yield! Henceforth adieu! Ye sons of war, henceforth adieu ! Love does all my muse control, Love possesses all my soul.

ODE IV.

GENTLY, gently rest my head
On the fragrant myrtle's bed,
Or beneath the blushing rose,
Or where the spotless lily grows.

Little laughing God of love,
From thy gay Idalian grove
Thither stretch thy trembling wing,
Thither all the wanton bring;
Closely tuck thy garments round,
Lightly trip it o'er the ground,
And, filling up the sparkling bowl,
To notes of raptare wake my soul.

Will the horse, in full career,
The sober voice of reason hear
Will the winged arrow stay,
When it cuts the liquid way
Then shall the rapid minutes speed,
Swifter than the fiery steed,
All at once down drop the wing,
And still as breath of zephyr hang.

Alas! they heed not what we say ;
The hour of life flies swift away;
And time shall be, when we no more
Shall fill the sparkling bumper o'er:
Age and sickness soon shall come,
The gripe of Death shall shake our frame,
And cold and lifeless in the clay
A heap of bones confus’dly lay.

Go! and the tomb profusely feast
With all the odours of the east;
Bestrew with flowers the cold damp ground,
And large libations pour around :
But will you thus, revive the dead?
Give joy, when ev'ry sense is fled ?
Ah! rather now, while life remains,
And briskly charging through our veins
The rich-fcd wanton juices flow;
While ev'ry sense is tun’d to joy ;
Now let balmy odours breathe,
Round our temples twine the wreath,
Quaff the bowl, or raise the song,
Or join in dance the youthful throng,
Ere to the shades of death we go,
And join the solemn dance below.

ODE XLVI.

UNHAPPY he ! who never lov'd, Whom no soft passion ever mov'd;

Unhappy he ! whose gentler heart
Feels all the pow'r of Cupid's dart.
Unhappy inost of men who knows
No joys of love amidst it's woes.

Fool that I was, who hop'd to find
A gen'rous heart in womankind !
Be
you
both

young, and wise, and good, Of gentlest manners, purest blood; Youth, wisdom, manners nothing prove, The rich alone win woman's love. Fool that I was, who hop'd to find A gen'rous heart in womankind !

Perish the wretch, whose sordid breast The lust of avarice first possess'd! Hence up to Heav'n fair Truth is fled, And ev'ry kind affection's dead : Nor brothers now, nor parents know The love which Nature bids to glow. Hence flows the widow's, orphan's tear, Hence all the dreadful waste of war. More fatal mischief yet succeeas Hence ev'ry faithful lover bleeds

ODE XXI.

A GOBLET !--No! give me a flood,
To cool the fever in my blood :
My brain 's on fire, my temples glow,
The chaplet 's blasted on my brow.

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