While Our Rosy Fillets Shed Freshness O'Er Each Fervid Head, With Many A Cup And Many A Smile The Festal Moments We Beguile. And While The Harp, Impassioned Flings Tuneful Rapture From Its Strings,[1] Some Airy Nymph, With Graceful Bound, Keeps Measure To The Music'S Sound; Waving, In Her Snowy Hand, The Leafy Bacchanalian Wand, Which, As The Tripping Wanton Flies, Trembles All Over To Her Sighs. A Youth The While, With Loosened Hair, Floating On The Listless Air, Sings, To The Wild Harp'S Tender Tone, A Tale Of Woe, Alas, His Own; And Oh, The Sadness In His Sigh. As O'Er His Lips The Accents Die! Never Sure On Earth Has Been Half So Bright, So Blest A Scene. It Seems As Love Himself Had Come To Make This Spot His Chosen Home;--[2] And Venus, Too, With All Her Wiles, And Bacchus, Shedding Rosy Smiles, All, All Are Here, To Hail With Me The Genius Of Festivity!