Vulcan! hear your glorious task:
I do not from your labours ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,
For war was ne’er a sport of mine.
No — let me have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul.
But mind that o’er its simple frame
No mimic constellations flame;
Nor grave upon the swelling side
Orion, scowling o’er the tide.
I care not for the glittering wain,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But let the vine luxuriant roll
Its blushing tendrils round the bowl,
While many a rose-lipp’d bacchant maid
Is culling clusters in their shade.
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,
Wildly press the gushing grapes,
And flights of Loves, in wanton play,
Wing through the air their winding way;
While Venus, from her arbour green,
Looks laughing at the joyous scene,
And young Lyæus by her side
Sits, worthy of so bright a bride.