The fugaciousness of the charms of the rose was made with the ancients* a reason for 

 enjoying the present hour. 



A MODERN ANACREONTIC SONG. 



Ye flow'rs that drink the morning dew, 



Roses, that court the sunny ray, 

 Connubial leagu'd, your tribes renew, 



And bid them all their charms display. 



Bid them to shine the parterre's pride, 



Or on the fragrant hedge -row gleam. 

 Or bending from the green -bank side. 



Kiss their own beauties in the stream. 



Ah ! why should they, a fading race. 



Be niggard of their sweetest bloom ? 

 That earth, whence they shall rise in grace. 



That earth shall soon become their tomb. 



Another Archer lies unseen ; 



Ne'er from their mark his arrows stray — 

 And Love shall drop his arrows keen, 



And leave to Death a trembling prey. 



Thus Man his proudest glory shews ; 



Thus soon his proudest glory dies ; 

 Like the young plant awhile he glows ; 



Like the frail flow'r lives, shines, and dies. 



* " Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." Or, in the real language of Anacreon, 



The women tell me every day, 

 That all my bloom has past away. 

 ' Behold,' the pretty wantons cry, 

 • Behold this mirror with a sig-h ; 

 ' The locks upon thy brow are few, 

 ' And, like the rest, are withering too !' 

 Whether decline has thinn'd my hair, 

 I'm sure I neither know nor care; 

 But this I know, and this I feel. 

 As onward to the tomb I steal. 

 That still as death approaches nearer. 

 The joys of life are sweeter, dearer; 

 And had I but an hour to live. 

 That little hour to bliss I'd give! 

 Then surely, Care, thou can'st not twine 

 Thy fetters round a soul like mine; 

 No, no ! the heart that feels with me. 

 Can never be a slave to thee! 

 And oh! before the vital thrill, 

 Which trembles at my heart, is still, 

 I'll gather joy's luxuriant flow'rs. 

 And yield with bliss my fading hours; 

 Venus shall make my winter bloom. 

 And Bacchus dance me to the tomb. 



Moore. 

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