The smiling sun resumes his sway,
And drives the dismal clouds away;
The teeming' earth is big with fruits,
Forth into day the olive shoots;
Rich, juicy clusters deck the vine,
Which soon shall ripen into wine:
The charming sight with joy I see,
To Bacchus welcome—and to me.
ODE XXXVIII.—ON HIMSELF.
True, ah! true, I'm growing old;
Why should not the truth be told?
Still, from youths I never shrink
When the business is to drink.
When the joyous troop advance,
Still I join the merry dance:
I no useless sceptre bear;[1]
But on high my bottle rear.
Should the grape some hero fire,
Should he wars and fights desire,
Let him fight then, if he please,
I prefer my peaceful ease.
Bring me, then, my gentle page,
Wine that glows with strength and age.[2]
- ↑ Among the ancients, the leader in the Bacchanalian dances bore a rod or sceptre.
- ↑ However degenerated in other respects, the modern Greeks still know "where the best Chian, and what it may cost them;" at least if we may judge from the following extract:—
"The red wine is the most esteemed in the island: a small part only is exported, the Greeks making too good a use of it themselves. It cannot greatly sooth or propitiate a Turk's feelings towards the despised and infidel Greeks to see them quaffing with keen delight the rich juice of the grape, and giving loose in the moment to unbounded gayety; while he, poor forbidden follower of Islam! must solace himself gravely with the pure fountain, his meager sherbet, or at most a cup of the coffee of Mocha."—Carne's Letters from the East, vol. i., p. 63.
