O give me the Nectar! O fill me the Bowl! Pour out for the Poet, Hebe! pour free! Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, That Styx the detested no more he may view, And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be! Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Pæan, I cry! The Wine of the Immortals Forbids me to die! VOL. I. 1 ELEGY, IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK VERSE INSCRIPTIONS. NEAR the lone pile with ivy overspread, Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound, Where "sleeps the moonlight" on yon verdant bedO humbly press that consecrated ground! For there does Edmund rest, the learned swain! Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide, : But soon did righteous Heaven her guilt pursue ! Where'er with wildered step she wandered pale, Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view, Still Edmund's voice accused her in each gale. With keen regret, and conscious guilt's alarms, Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught: Some tearful maid perchance, or blooming youth, May hold it in remembrance; and be taught That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth. |