Say-What will all your charms avail,

If the dear Maid, whose blushes glow
Like living tulips, be not there?

The Nymph who tempts with honey'd lip, With cheeks that shame the vernal rose, In rapture we can ne'er behold;

Unless with kisses fond we sip

The luscious balm that lip bestows→→
Unless our arms that Nymph enfold.

Sweet is the rose-empurpled bow'r,
And sweet the juice distilling bright
In rills of crimson from the vine:

But are they sweet, or have they pow'r
To bathe the senses in delight,

Where Beauty's presence does not shine?

Nay, let the magic hand of Art

The animated picture grace,

With all the hues it can devise

Yet, this no pleasure will impart,
Without the soul-enchanting face
Tinctur'd with Nature's purer dyes.

But what's thy life, O HAFEZ! say?
A coin that will no value bear,

Altho' by thee 't is priz'd in vain-
Not worthy to be thrown away

At the rich banquet of thy fair,

Where boundless love, and pleasure, reign!

ODE II.

HITHER, boy, a goblet bring,
Be it of wine's ruby spring!

Bring me one, and bring me two;
Nought but purest wine will do!

Iti s wine, boy, that can save

Even lovers from the grave;

Old and young

alike will say―

"T is the balm that makes us gay.

Wine 's the Sun; the Moon (sweet soul !)

We will call the waning bowl:

Bring the Sun, and bring him soon,

To the bosom of the Moon!

Dash us with this liquid fire,
It will thoughts divine inspire,
And, by nature taught to glow,
Let it like the waters flow!

If the rose should fade, do you

Bid it cheerfully adieu :

Like rose-water to each guest

Bring thy wine, and make us blest.

If the nightingale's rich throat
Cease the music of its note;
It is fit, boy, thou shouldst bring
Cups that will with music ring.

Be not sad, whatever change
O'er the busy world may range;

Harp and lute together bring,

Sweetly mingling string with string!

My bright maid, unless it be

In some dream, I cannot see:

Bring the draught, that will disclose

Whence it was sleep first arose !

Should it chance o'erpow'r my mind, Where's the remedy I find?

"Tis in wine then, boy, supply

:

Wine, till all my senses die!

Unto HAFEZ, boy, do you

Instant bring a cup or two:

Bring them; for the wine shall flow Whether it be law, or no!

BY MILTON.

HENCE, loathed MELANCHOLY!

Of CERBERUS and blackest MIDNIGHT

born,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights

unholy,

Find out some uncouth cell;

Where brooding DARKNESS spreads his jealous

wings,

And the night-raven sings;

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert, ever dwell!
But come, thou Goddess fair and free,

In Heav'n yclep'd EUPHROSYNE,
And by men, heart-easing MIRTH,
Whom lovely VENUS, at a birth
With two sister Graces more,

To ivy-crowned BACCHUS bore;