Anacreontics.
I.
Here sit thee down,—give o’er that peeling wail,
And as we quaff, beneath our vineyard’s screen,
I’ll tell thee, lover, why I am serene,—
Whilst thou appear’st so pensive and so pale ;
Behold yon clusters—from the summer’s gale
They seem to shrink with apprehensive mien,
And midst the leaves, as fearing to be seen,
E’en from the Sun, their blushing beauties veil ;
Despite their coyness, with unsparing hand,
Their leafy, green asylums we molest,
And with this rosy juice, of magic bland,
And potency celestial, so, are blest——
I tell thee, I would have thee understand,
That lips, like grapes, are moulded to be prest.