SONG VI. The Tear that bedews.—Mr. HARPER

Tho' Bachus may boast of his care killing bowl, And folly in thought drowning revels delight; Such worship alas hath no charms for the soul, When softer devotions the sences invite; To the arrow of fate or the canker of care, His potions oblivious a balm may bestow, But to fancy that feeds on the charms of the fair, The death of reflection's the birth of all woe.

What soul that's possest of a dream so divine, With riot would bid the sweet vision begone For the tear that bedews Sensibility's shrine, Is a drop of more worth than all Bachus's tun. The tender excess which enamours the heart, To few is imparted, to millions deny'd, 'Tis the brain of the victim that tempers the dart, And fools jest at that for which Sages have dy'd.

Each change and excess hath thro' life been my doom, And well can I speak of its joy and its strife; The bottle affords us a glimpse thro' the gloom, But Love's the true sun-shine that gladdens our life. Come then rosy Venus and spread o'er my sight, The magic illusions that ravish the soul, Awake in my breast the soft dream of delight, And drop from thy myrtle one leaf in my bowl.

Then deep will I drink of the nectar divine, Nor e'er jolly God, from thy banquet remove, But each tube of my heart ever thirst for the wine, That's mellow'd by Friendship and sweeten'd by love.