_Ode Xxxi._

Let us drain the nectar'd bowl, Let us raise the song of soul To him, the God who loves so well The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell! Him, who instructs the sons of earth To thrid the tangled dance of mirth; Him, who was nursed with infant Love, And cradled in the Paphian grove; Him, that the snowy Queen of Charms Has fondled in her twining arms. From him that dream of transport flows, Which sweet intoxication knows; With him, the brow forgets to darkle, And brilliant graces learn to sparkle. Behold! my boys a goblet bear, Whose sunny foam bedews the air. Where are now the tear, the sigh? To the winds they fly, they fly!

Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking, Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking! Oh! can the tears we lend to thought In life's account avail us aught? Can we discern, with all our lore, The path we're yet to journey o'er? No, no! the walk of life is dark; 'Tis wine alone can strike a spark! Then let me quaff the foamy tide, And through the dance meandering glide; Let me imbibe the spicy breath Of odours chafed to fragrant death; Or from the kiss of love inhale A more voluptuous, richer gale! To souls that court the phantom Care, Let him retire and shroud him there; While we exhaust the nectar'd bowl, And swell the choral song of soul To him, the God who loves so well The nectar'd bowl, the choral swell!