Sweet Phyllis, leave thy quiet home,
For lo! the ides of April come!
Then hasten to my bower;
A cask of rich Albanian wine,
In nine years mellowness, is mine,
To glad the festal hour.
My garden-herbs, in fragrance warm,
Our various chaplets wait to form;
My tender ivies grow,
That, twining in thy amber hair,
Add jocund spirit to thine air,
And whiteness to thy brow.
My walls with silver vessels shine;
Chaste vervain decks the modest shrine,
That longs with crimson stains
To see its foliage sprinkled o'er,
When the devoted Lamb shall pour
The treasure of his veins.
The household Girls, and menial Boy,
From room to room assiduous fly,
And busy hands extend;
Our numerous fires are quivering bright,
And, rolling from their pointed height,
The dusky wreaths ascend[1].
Convivial rites, in mystic state,
Thou, lovely Nymph, shalt celebrate,
And give the day to mirth
That this [2]Love-chosen month divides;
Since honor'd rose its blooming ides
By dear M'cenas' birth.
O! not to me my natal star
So sacred seems; - then, Nymph, prepare
To grace its smiling dawn!
A wealthier Maid, in pleasing chains,
Illustrious [3]Telephus detains,
From humble THEE withdrawn.
When Pride would daring hopes create,
Of Phaeton recall the fate,
Consum'd in his career!
Let rash Bellerophon, who tried
The fiery Pegasus to guide,
Awake thy prudent fear!
Thus warn'd, thy better interest know,
And cease those charming eyes to throw
On Youths of high degree!
Come then, of all my Loves the last,
For, every other passion past,
I only burn for thee!
Come, and with tuneful voice rehearse
The measures of thy Poet's verse
And charm the list'ning Throng!
Believe me, Fairest, all our cares
Will soften at the melting airs
That deck the lyric song.