A Draught of Sunshine

Hence Burgundy, Claret, and Port,

      Away with old Hock and Madeira,

Too earthly ye are for my sport;

      There 's a beverage brighter and clearer.

Instead of a pitiful rummer,

My wine overbrims a whole summer;

      My bowl is the sky,

      And I drink at my eye,

      Till I feel in the brain

      A Delphian pain—

Then follow, my Caius! then follow:

      On the green of the hill

      We will drink our fill

      Of golden sunshine,

      Till our brains intertwine

With the glory and grace of Apollo!

God of the Meridian,

      And of the East and West,

To thee my soul is flown,

      And my body is earthward press'd.—

It is an awful mission,

A terrible division;

And leaves a gulf austere

To be fill'd with worldly fear.

Aye, when the soul is fled

To high above our head,

Affrighted do we gaze

After its airy maze,

As doth a mother wild,

When her young infant child

Is in an eagle's claws—

And is not this the cause

Of madness?—God of Song,

Thou bearest me along

Through sights I scarce can bear:

O let me, let me share

With the hot lyre and thee,

The staid Philosophy.

Temper my lonely hours,

And let me see thy bowers

More unalarm'd!