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 piriful 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 gulph 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!