IMPROMPTU.

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

1810.

BETWEEN Adam and me the great difference is,
Though a Paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches till turned out of his,
While, for want of my breeches, I'm banished from mine.

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled,

While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,
That the emblem they graved on his seal was a child,
With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

O Wellington! long as such Ministers wield

Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;
For while they're in the Council and you in the Field,
We've the babies in them, and the thunder in you!

1813.

I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure;
'Twas in a vision of the night,
He beamed upon my wondering sight.
I heard his voice, and warmly pressed
The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery dye,
But beauty sparkled in his eye;
Sparkled in his eyes of fire,
Through the mist of soft desire.
His lip exhaled, whene'er he sighed,
The fragrance of the racy tide;
And, as with weak and reeling feet,
He came my cordial kiss to meet,
An infant of the Cyprian band
Guided him on with tender hand.
Quick from his glowing brows he drew
His braid, of many a wanton hue;

I took the braid of wanton twine,

It breathed of him, and blushed with wine! I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow,

And ah! I feel its magic now!

I feel that e'en his garland's touch
Can make the bosom love too much!

ODE II.

GIVE me the harp of epic song,

Which Homer's finger thrilled along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal rite,
I'm monarch of the board to-night;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I!

And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch the elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
O Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,
In wild but sweet ebriety!

And flash around such sparks of thought.
As Bacchus could alone have taught!
Then give the harp of epic song
Which Homer's finger thrilled along ;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing!

ODE III.

LISTEN to the Muse's lyre,

Master of the pencil's fire!

Sketched in painting's bold display,
Many a city first portray;
Many a city, revelling free,
Warm with loose festivity.

Picture then a rosy train,
Bacchants straying o'er the plain;
Piping as they roam along
Roundelay or shepherd-song.
Paint me next, if painting may
Such a theme as this portray,
All the happy heaven of love
These elect of Cupid prove.

ODE IV.

VULCAN! hear your glorious task;
I do not from your labours ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,
For war was ne'er a sport of mine
No-let me have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul:
But let not o'er its simple frame
Your mimic constellations flame;
Nor grave upon the swelling side
Orion scowling o'er the tide.
I care not for the glittering Wain,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But oh! let vines luxuriant roll
Their blushing tendrils round the bowl,
While many a rose-lipped bacchant maid
Is culling clusters in their shade.
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,
Wildly press the gushing grapes;

And flights of loves, in wanton ringlets,
Flit around on golden winglets;
While Venus to her mystic bower
Beckons the rosy vintage-Power.

ODE V.

GRAVE me a cup with brilliant grace,
Deep as the rich and holy vase
Which on the shrine of Spring reposes,
When shepherds hail that hour of roses.
Grave it with themes of chaste design,
Formed for a heavenly bowl like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites
In which religious zeal delights;
Nor any tale of tragic fate

Which history trembles to relate!
No-cull thy fancies from above,
Themes of heaven and themes of love.
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy,
Distil the grape in drops of joy,
And while he smiles at every tear,
Let warm-eyed Venus, dancing near,
With spirits of the genial bed,
The dewy herbage deftly tread.
Let Love be there, without his arms,
In timid nakedness of charms;
And all the Graces, linked with Love,
Blushing through the shadowy grove;
While rosy boys disporting round
In circlets trip the velvet ground;
But ah! if there Apollo toys,

I tremble for my rosy boys!

ODE VI.

As late I sought the spangled bowers,
To cull a wreath of matin flowers,
Where many an early rose was weeping,
I found the urchin Cupid sleeping.
I caught the boy; a goblet's tide
Was richly mantling by my side;
I caught nim by his downy wing,
And whelmed him in the racy spring.
Oh! then I drank the poisoned bowl,
And Love now nestles in my soul !
Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,
I feel him fluttering in my breast.

ODE VII.

THE Women tell me every day
That all my bloom has passed away.
"Behold," the pretty wanton's cry,
"Behold this mirror with a sigh;
The locks upon thy brow are few,
And, like the rest, they're withering too!"
Whether decline has thinned my hair,
I'm sure I neither know nor care;
But this I know, and this I feel,
As onward to the tomb I steal,
That still as death approaches nearer,
The joys of life are sweeter, dearer;
And had I but an hour to live,
That little hour to bliss I'd give!

ODE VIII.

I CARE not for the idle state

Of Persia's king, the rich, the great!
I envy not the monarch's throne,
Nor wish the treasured gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy braid,
The fervour of my brows to shade;
Be mine the odours, richly sighing,
Amidst my hoary tresses flying.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er should shine;
But if to-morrow comes, why then-
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus, while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile
With mantling cup and cordial smile;
And shed from every bowl of wine

The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine!

For Death may come, with brow unpleasant, May come, when least we wish him present, And beckon to the sable shore,

And grimly bid us-drink no more!

ODE IX.

I PRAY thee, by the gods above,
Give me the mighty bowl I love,
And let me sing in wild delight,
"I will-I will be mad to-night!"
Alcmæon once, as legends tell