THE
VOLUPTUARY.

THE toils the dangers now of WAR are o’er;

The glittering sabre I with joy resign:

No generous WARRIOR thirsts for human gore.

Boy! fill the golden cup with sparkling WINE.

Let the old DERVISH sacred deem his cell,

And waste in moping thought his stagnant hours;

With pining ABSTINENCE for ever dwell,

And shun the path that NATURE strews with flowers.

To HIM, perhaps, far more congenial, gloom

The midnight horrors of the lonely grove;

Than all the varied sweets, the varied bloom

Of fairy fields, where souls enchanted rove.

To HIM the death-toned screaming bird of night,

Responsive to the lion’s hungry howl,

And gliding spectres, yield a dire delight.

Boy! fill the censer—fill the sparkling bowl.

To wine—to mirth—I dedicate my days;

To mirth—to wine—I dedicate my song:

Dear, lovely WOMAN, too, shall share my praise,

To her sweet praise the sweetest notes belong.

Boy! bring more WINE—the golden goblet crown,

And wreaths of myrtle round my turban twine:

In floods of nectar every care we’ll drown,

O scatter FLOWERS around, and bring me WINE!

Vainly would man in dreams of soft repose,

Ignobly waste his listless life away;

As well might sleep o’erspread the blushing ROSE,

While flows the NIGHTINGALE’s melodious lay.

How should TRANQUILLITY its charms impart?

Ye lovely Maids who all despotic reign,

You ravish PEACE resistless from my heart,

As tempests tear the sheep-cotes from the plain.

Boy! bring me WINE, more WINE with speed supply;

Pour till the golden goblets all run o’er.

Let the gay carpet be no longer dry.

Pour till the crimson torrent float the floor.

What joys more rapturous can immortals prove

In all the glories of their state divine?

Here, songs of GLADNESS hail the joys of LOVE.

Boy! scatter FLOWERS around, and bring me WINE.