The mighty Spirit and its power which stains[1] The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains, I sing. Say ye, its fiery Vot'ries true, The jovial Curate, and the shrill-tongu'd Shrew; Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst, Where Bowl the second charms like Bowl the first; Say, how and why the sparkling ill is shed, The Heart which hardens, and which rules the Head. When Winter stern his gloomy front uprears, A sable void the barren earth appears; 10 The meads no more their former verdure boast, Fast bound their streams, and all their Beauty lost; The herds, the flocks, their icy garments mourn, And wildly murmur for the Spring's return; The fallen branches from the sapless tree With glittering fragments strow the glassy way; From snow-top'd Hills the whirlwinds keenly blow, Howl through the Woods, and pierce the vales below; Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies; 20 The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the floating air; The floating air their downy substance glides Through springing Waters, and prevents their tides; Seizes the rolling Waves, and, as a God, Charms their swift race, and stops the refl'ent flood; The opening valves, which fill the venal road, Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood; The labouring Pulse a slower motion rules, The Tendons stiffen, and the Spirit cools; 30 Each asks the aid of [Nature's] sister Art, To Cher the senses, and to warm the Heart. The gentle fair on nervous tea relies, Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes; An inoffensive Scandal fluttering round, Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound; Champain the Courtier drinks, the spleen to chase, The Colonel burgundy, and port his Grace; Turtle and 'rrack the city rulers charm, Ale and content the labouring peasants warm; 40 O'er the dull embers happy Colin sits, Colin, the prince of joke and rural wits; Whilst the wind whistles through the hollow panes, He drinks, nor of the rude assault complains; And tells the Tale, from sire to son retold, Of spirits vanishing near hidden gold; Of moon-clad Imps, that tremble by the dew, Who skim the air, or glide o'er waters blue. The throng invisible, that doubtless float By mould'ring Tombs, and o'er the stagnant moat; 50 Fays dimly glancing on the russet plain, And all the dreadful nothing of the Green. And why not these? Less fictious is the tale, Inspir'd by Hel'con's streams, than muddy ale? Peace be to such, the happiest and the best, Who with the forms of fancy urge their jest; Who wage no war with an Avenger's Rod, Nor in the pride of reason curse their God.