Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand Of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still a Ruby gushes from the Vine,
And many a Garden by the Water blows,
And David's lips are lockt; but in divine
High-piping Péhlevi, with "Wine! Wine! Wine!
"Red Wine!"---the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That sallow cheek of her's t'incarnadine.
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