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Life fleets like a dream, like a vision appears,
dum serta, unguenta, puella
SHORT is the breath of life, and short
While feeling yet and passion live.
The grave of bliss, the nurse of woe,
And sorrow yields to revel's power,
And laughter speeds the jovial hour; While yet in ardent youth we fly,
Pregnant of life and hope, to sip
From blushing Beauty's rosy lip;
Then still while love and young desire
Play through the veins and warm the soul, Burn, burn with love's exalting fire, And drink to beauty's health the bowl.
COME, thou soul-reviving cup,
And warm my wasted heart!
In thy fount the Lyric Muse
And Horace drain'd thy spring!
When, bless'd cup, thy fires divine
Pierce through Time's dark reign,
Ne'er, sweet cup, was votary bless'd
Then, magic cup, again for me
A heaven in Beauty's eye!
On Pleasure's downy wing,
FILL the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to [varied round Let us drink! who would not? since through life's In the goblet alone no deception is found.
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
That pleasure existed while passion was there?
In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,
And dreams that affection can never take wing,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam-thou never canst change; [what appears Thou grow'st old, who does not? but on earth Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?
Yet if bless'd to the utmost that love can bestow,
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
Then the season of youth and its vanities pass'd,
When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth; Hope was left, was she not? but the goblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.
Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown The age of our nectar shall gladden our own; We must die, who shall not? may our sins be for
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.
HEED no more the coming morrow,
Snatch the present hour from sorrow,
Fly, ye moody sons of Sadness,
Here each bosom swells with gladness,
Life to us its sweets discloses,
Strews our path with flowers; We, while Dulness safe reposes, Live the passing hours!
R. A. DAVENPORT.
WRITTEN IN 1788.
O'ER the vine-cover'd hills and fair valleys of
An effulgence so mild, with a lustre so bright,
And from deserts of darkness and dungeons of
This song was written for a German Air, the words of which begin with Bin ein brauner Schweitzer Madchen,' &c.