The Bacchanalian

Ye sordid wretches! chain'd to rules, As asses dull, and obstinate as mules; Whose minds ne'er knew one liberal thought, Back to your sneaking miserable cells! Where narrowness of thinking dwells, With not one social sense of feeling fraught.

There free from tumult, free from strife, In silence doze, nor snuff the wick of life: But slowly let it waste away, While cunning prudence plauds the saving scheme, Nor let its flame so much as seem To cast a glimpse of one eccentric ray.

Give me the man of blither soul, Whose spirits thro' an ampler channel roll! Who, spite of method's drowsy plan, Will plunge alert into a sea of joy, And float on active fancy's buoy, And snatch at fleeting pleasure, whilst he can.

See yonder festive, jocund band! A nectar'd goblet gracing every hand: Mirth opes the storehouse of the soul, And on ill-nature turns her polish'd key; Sullen the Demon limps away, Nor dares exert the function of controul.

Thither let me bend in haste, And embrace the bottle's waist, Charms Anacreontic prove, Quaffing to the God of love. Brighter blushes paint his face, And he looks a fresher grace, When with Bacchus he reclines, Underneath his purple vines. How the jolly, hunting song, Emblematic, loud, and strong, On attention's organ dwells, And the force of care dispells, 'Till the full-voic'd bursting chorus Sets the fox and hounds before us. Sons of sorrow! quit your beds, Seek the path which Bacchus treads: Drown your avaricious notions In the claret's lively potions: Mind not what the miser says; Folly 'tis to earn his praise: Or his constitution fails, Or his avarice prevails, Else he'd laugh, and drink, and be Airy, tipsy, gay as we.