O STRANGER! if Anacreon's shell Has ever taught thy heart to swell With passion's throb or pleasure's sigh, In pity turn, as wandering nigh, And drop thy goblet's richest tear In exquisite libation here! So shall my sleeping ashes thrill With visions of enjoyment still. I cannot even in death resign The festal joys that once were mine, When Harmony pursued my ways, And Bacchus wanton'd to my lays. Oh! if delight could charm no more, If all the goblet's bliss were o'er, When fate had once our doom decreed, Then dying would be death indeed! Nor could I think, unblest by wine, Divinity itself divine! |