ANACREONTIC.

The wisest men are fools in wine,

Experience makes us think:

Its magic spells are so divine,

We reason — yet we drink!

How short's the longest life of man,

How soon its brightest laurels fade —

Then, as our life is but a span,

Let all its hours be joyous made.

Wine o'er the ardent restless mind

Entwines its poppy chain;

A solace, then, the wretched find.

In fictions of the brain.

Oh! as the charmed glass we sip,

We conquer care and pain:

It woos like woman's dewy lip,

To kiss — and come again!