ENCIRCL'D in a cloud of smoke,
Sat the convivial core ;
Like lightning flash'd the merry joke,
The thund'ring laugh did roar ;
Blythe Bacchus [1] pierc'd his fav'rite hoard,
The sparkling glasses shine :
“ 'Tis this,” they cry, “come, sweep the board,
Which makes us all divine !”
Apollo tun'd the vocal shell,
With song, with catch, and glee :
The sonorous hall the notes did swell,
And echoed merrily.
Each sordid, selfish, little thought,
For shame itself did drown
And social love, with every draught,
Approv'd them for her own.
“Come, fill another bumper up,
And drink in Bacchus' praise,
Who sent the kind, congenial cup,
Such heav'nly joys to raise !”
Great Jove, quite mad to see such fun,
At Bacchus 'gan to curse,
And to remind they were but men,
Sent down the fiend Remorse.
This poem first appeared in Maver's Glasgow periodical, the Selector, of 1805, Vol. II, page 111,—the seventh, and last, with the signature “Modestus.” See first Note to No. 5.—Ed.
[1] Bacchus, in Heathen Mythology, the son of Jupiter and Semele. The god of Wine,—hence the title of this poem, “The Bacchanalians.”—Ed.
[Semple 54]