Classic Poem

Io! the vintage now is done,
And black'ned with th' autumnal sun,
The grapes gay youths and virgins bear,
The sweetest product of the year!
In vats the heav'nly load they lay,
And swift the damsels trip away;
The youths alone the winepress tread,
For wine's by skilful drunkards made:
Meantime the mirthful song they raise,
To! Bacchus to thy praise;
And eyeing the blest juice, in thought
Quaff an imaginary draught.
Gayly thro' wine the old advance,
And doubly tremble in the dance:
In fancy'd youth they chant and play,
Forgetful that their locks are grey.
Thro' wine the youth compleats his loves;
He haunts the silence of the groves,
Where stretch'd beneath the embow'ring shade
He spies some love-inspiring maid;
On beds of rosy sweets she lies,
Inviting sleep to close her eyes:
Fast by her side his limbs he throws,
Her hand he presses — breathes his vows,
And cries, " My love! my soul! comply
" This instant, or, alas! I die. "
In vain the youth persuasion tries;
In vain her tongue at least denies:
Then scorning death, thro' dull despair
He storms th' unwilling willing fair;
Blessing the grapes that could dispense
The happy, happy, impudence.