Classic Poem

Sing we to Beauty and to Wine,
For all the rest is naught:
Mark, mark, how soon mankind forget
The hymns that Freedom taught!
A nation of the brave
Bows down, once more a slave:
Epicureans, bid me join your throng!
France, to whom quiet brings not ease,
Wills not that I, in times like these,
With trumpet blast should dare exalt my song
Adieu, poor Glory, then, adieu!
Let's disinherit History, too —
Come, Cupids, come, and fill our cups anew!

What! sons of Mars could shameless beg
With livery to be suited;
Whilst for their standards, all in tears,
My Muse, herself, recruited?
Ah! if I chance to spy
Young Beauty tripping by,
Beneath her kisses shall my voice be dumb:
Or let me flatter with such grace,
That they for me rake up some place;
Yes, black or white, Court-jester I'll become!
Adieu, poor Glory, then, adieu!
Let's disinherit History, too —
Come, Cupids, come, and fill our cups anew!

Our Judges, all of them, abet
The outrage of our foes:
And Justice with a tyrant's hand
On Themis deals her blows.
Of satire I'm afraid —
Not daring to upbraid,
Garlands of flowers my cup and lyre must bear:
I've braved tribunals to my cost;
In their infernal mazes tost,
Cerberus I hear, but see not Minos there.
Adieu, poor Glory, then, adieu!
Let's disinherit History, too —
Come, Cupids, come, and fill our cups anew!

The tyrants whom we keep in pay,
What feeble dwarfs they seem!
Gulliver sneezes — and the sound
A thunder-clap they deem
But what a picture's here!
Tempests no more we fear;
'Tis but our Pleasures that can shipwrecked be
O ye oppressed, more softly sigh!
What matters, while we're feasting high,
If the world suffer, or from suffering's free?
Adieu, poor Glory, then, adieu!
Let's disinherit History, too —
Come, Cupids, come, and fill our cups anew!

Uneasily does Freedom dream,
Whene'er she's lulled to sleep —
Let us insensible become,
Our joyous tone to keep
When all their courage lose,
Poor feeble dove, my Muse
Back to her roses, drooping, wings her way:
With eagle proud no more would vie,
Her own soft trade content to ply —
Hark! Bacchus calls — his summons I obey
Adieu, poor Glory, then, adieu!
Let's disinherit History, too —
Come, Cupids, come, and fill our cups anew!