When wine I quaff, before my eyes

Dreams of poetic glory rise;[2]

And freshened by the goblet's dews,

My soul invokes the heavenly Muse,

When wine I drink, all sorrow's o'er;

I think of doubts and fears no more;

But scatter to the railing wind

Each gloomy phantom of the mind.

When I drink wine, the ethereal boy,

Bacchus himself, partakes my joy;

And while we dance through vernal bowers,

Whose every breath comes fresh from flowers,

In wine he makes my senses swim,

Till the gale breathes of naught but him!

  Again I drink,—and, lo, there seems

A calmer light to fill my dreams;

The lately ruffled wreath I spread

With steadier hand around my head;

Then take the lyre, and sing "how blest

The life of him who lives at rest!"

But then comes witching wine again,

With glorious woman in its train;

And, while rich perfumes round me rise,

That seem the breath of woman's sighs,

Bright shapes, of every hue and form.

Upon my kindling fancy swarm,

Till the whole world of beauty seems

To crowd into my dazzled dreams!

When thus I drink, my heart refines,

And rises as the cup declines;

Rises in the genial flow,

That none but social spirits know,

When, with young revellers, round the bowl,

The old themselves grow young in soul!

Oh, when I drink, true joy is mine,

There's bliss in every drop of wine.

All other blessings I have known,

I scarcely dared to call my own;

But this the Fates can ne'er destroy,

Till death o'ershadows all my joy.

[1] Faber thinks this ode spurious; but, I believe, he is singular in his opinion. It has all the spirit of our author. Like the wreath which he presented in the dream, "it smells of Anacreon."

[2] Anacreon is not the only one [says Longepierre] whom wine has inspired with poetry. We find an epigram in the first book of the "Anthologia," which begins thus:—

  If with water you fill up your glasses,

    You'll never write anything wise;

  For wine's the true horse of Parnassus.

    Which carries a bard to the skies!