The locks upon thy brow are few, 5
And, like the rest, they're withering too!"
Whether decline has thinned 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, 10
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.
THE WISER PART. ODE VIII.
I care not for the idle state
Of Persia's king, the rich, the great:
I envy not the monarch's throne
Nor wish the treasur'd gold my own.
But oh! be mine the rosy wreath, 5
Its freshness o'er my brow to breathe;
Be mine the rich perfumes that flow,
To cool and scent my locks of snow.
To-day I'll haste to quaff my wine,
As if to-morrow ne'er would shine; 10
But if to-morrow comes, why then—
I'll haste to quaff my wine again.
And thus while all our days are bright,
Nor time has dimmed their bloomy light,
Let us the festal hours beguile 15
With mantling cup and cordial smile;
And shed from each new bowl of wine
The richest drop on Bacchus' shrine.
For Death may come, with brow unpleasant,
May come, when least we wish him present, 20
And beckon to the sable shore,
And grimly bid us—drink no more!
