Who shall now receive that garment
Far beyond all others wish’d-for? 
Whom our much-loved mistress favour
As her own acknowledged servant? 
I am blest by kindly Fortune’s
Tokens true, in silence pray’d for! 
And I feel myself held captive,
To her service now devoted.

Yet, e’en while I, thus enraptured,
Thus adorn’d, am proudly wand’ring,
See! yon wantons are entwining,
Void of strife, with secret ardour,
Other nets, each fine and finer,
Threads of twilight interweaving,
Moonbeams sweet, night-violets’ balsam.

Ere the net is noticed by us,
Is a happier one imprison’d,
Whom we, one and all, together
Greet with envy and with blessings.

1803.
-----
The goblet.

Once I held a well-carved brimming goblet,—­
In my two hands tightly clasp’d I held it,
Eagerly the sweet wine sipp’d I from it,
Seeking there to drown all care and sorrow.

Amor enter’d in, and found me sitting,
And he gently smiled in modest fashion,
Smiled as though the foolish one he pitied.

“Friend, I know a far more beauteous vessel,
One wherein to sink thy spirit wholly;
Say, what wilt thou give me, if I grant it,
And with other nectar fill it for thee?”

Oh, how kindly hath he kept his promise! 
For to me, who long had yearn’d, he granted
Thee, my Lida, fill’d with soft affection.

When I clasp mine arms around thee fondly,
When I drink in love’s long-hoarded balsam
From thy darling lips so true, so faithful,
Fill’d with bliss thus speak I to my spirit
“No! a vessel such as this, save Amor
Never god hath fashion’d or been lord of! 
Such a form was ne’er produced by Vulcan
With his cunning, reason-gifted hammers! 
On the leaf-crown’d mountains may Lyaeus
Bid his Fauns, the oldest and the wisest,
Pass the choicest clusters through the winepress,
And himself watch o’er the fermentation: 
Such a draught no toil can e’er procure him!”

1781.
-----
To the Grasshopper.

After Anacreon.

[The strong resemblance of this fine poem to Cowley’s Ode bearing the same name, and beginning “Happy insect! what can be,” will be at once seen.]

Happy art thou, darling insect,
Who, upon the trees’ tall branches,
By a modest draught inspired,
Singing, like a monarch livest! 
Thou possessest as thy portion
All that on the plains thou seest,
All that by the hours is brought thee
’Mongst the husbandmen thou livest,
As a friend, uninjured by them,
Thou whom mortals love to honour,
Herald sweet of sweet Spring’s advent! 
Yes, thou’rt loved by all the Muses,

Phoebus’ self, too, needs must love thee;
They their silver voices gave thee,
Age can never steal upon thee. 
Wise and gentle friend of poets,
Born a creature fleshless, bloodless,
Though Earth’s daughter, free from suff’ring,
To the gods e’en almost equal.