Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XLIII.

While our rosy fillets shed Freshness o'er each fervid head, With many a cup and many a smile The festal moments we beguile. And while the harp, impassioned flings Tuneful rapture from its strings, Some airy nymph, with graceful bound, Keeps measure to the music's sound; Waving, in her snowy hand, The leafy Bacchanalian wand, Which, as the tripping wanton flies, Trembles all over to her sighs. A youth the while, with loosened hair, Floating on the listless air, Sings, to the wild harp's tender tone, A tale of woe, alas, his own; And oh, the sadness in his sigh. As o'er his lips the accents die! Never sure on earth has been Half so bright, so blest a scene. It seems as Love himself had come To make this spot his chosen home;— And Venus, too, with all her wiles, And Bacchus, shedding rosy smiles, All, all are here, to hail with me The Genius of Festivity!