_Ode Vi._

While our rosy fillets shed Blushes o'er each fervid head, With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile. And while the harp, impassion'd, flings Tuneful rapture from the strings, Some airy nymph, with fluent limbs, Through the dance luxuriant swims, Waving, in her snowy hand, The leafy Bacchanalian wand, Which, as the tripping wanton flies, Shakes its tresses to her sighs; A youth the while, with loosen'd hair, Floating on the listless air, Sings to the wild harp's tender tone,

A tale of woes, alas! his own; And then what nectar in his sigh, As o'er his lip the murmurs die! Surely never yet has been So divine, so blest a scene! Has Cupid left the starry sphere, To wave his golden tresses here? Oh yes! and Venus, queen of wiles, And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, All, all are here, to hail with me The genius of festivity!