Anacreontic

Blame not the bowl — the fruitful bowl,
Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring,
And amber drops elysian roll,
To bathe young Love's delighted wing.
What like the grape Osiris gave
Makes rigid age so lithe of limb?
Illumines memory's tearful wave,
And teaches drowning hope to swim!
Did ocean from his radiant arms
To earth another Venus give,
He ne'er could match the mellow charms
That in the breathing beaker live.
Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard,
In characters that mock the sight,
Till some kind liquid, o'er them pour'd,
Brings all their hidden warmth to light —
Are feelings bright, which, in the cup,
Though graven deep, appear but dim,
Till, fill'd with glowing Bacchus up,
They sparkle on the foaming brim.
Each drop upon the first you pour
Brings some new tender thought to life,
And, as you fill it more and more,
The last with fervid soul is rife.
The island fount, that kept of old
Its fabled path beneath the sea,
And fresh, as first from earth it roll'd,
From earth again rose joyously:
Bore not beneath the bitter brine
Each flower upon its limpid tide,
More faithfully than in the wine
Our hearts toward each other glide
Then drain the cup, and let thy soul
Learn, as the draught delicious flies,
Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl,
Truth beaming at the bottom lies.