The Fugitive from Love

Is there but a single theme
For the youthful poet's dream?
Is there but a single wire
To the youthful poet's lyre?
Earth below and heaven above —
Can he sing of naught but love?

Nay! the battle's dust I see!
God of war! I follow thee!
And, in martial numbers, raise
Worthy paeans to thy praise.
Ah! she meets me on the field —
If I fly not, I must yield.

Jolly patron ot the grape!
To thy arms I will escape!
Quick, the rosy nectar bring;
"Io Bacche" I will sing.
Ha! Confusion! every sip
But reminds me of her lip.

Palt,as! give me wisdom's page,
And awake my lyric rage;
Love is fleeting; love is vain;
I will try a nobler strain.
O, perplexity! my books
But reflect her haunting looks!

Jupiter! on thee I cry!
Take me and my lyre on high!
Lo! the stars beneath me gleam!
Here, O, poet! is a theme.
Madness! She has come above!
Every chord is whispering "Love!'