ROSY Bacchus and Pallas once had an affray,
Where neither would precedence yield;
For each seem'd determin'd on gaining the day,
And routing the foe from the field.

Says Bacchus, 'You'll grant, me most mortals adore,
And with rapture resort to my court;
While for you only greybeards and dotards explore,
When age has forbid them to sport.'

Says Pallas, 'You're right;' and she bow'd on her shield:
'This indeed is the first of your hits;
For e'er since my father his sceptre could wield,
The fools have outnumber'd the wits.'

An emotion of rage fill'd young Bacchus's breast;
And snatching some grapes from his brow,
Disdainful he threw them at Pallas's crest,
While his ruby cheeks redder did grow.

'Nay now, trust me,' says Pallas, 'I meant no offence;
But you know, my dear Bacchus, I came
From the forehead of Jove when he smote it for sense,
My conquest should give you no shame.'

'Now Pluto swift drag me o'er Styx to his hell,
And bid water be ever my drink,
If e'er, owlish goddess, I yield thee the bell,
Or Bacchus at woman shall shrink.

'What avail your tough maxims and mischievous lore,
But to render men crafty, or sad?
Nor even to lighten the wond'rous bore,
Is a drop of my juice to be had.'

'Ah, poor little baby!' cried Pallas again;
'Let thy vine cover'd pate be at rest:
To wage war with Wisdom, young Toper, is vain,
You'll only come off second best.'

As thus they disputed, Love, bounding along,
Chanc'd together his messmates to see;
And sportively bowing, he cried, 'Am I wrong,
Or do Bacchus and Pallas agree?'

'Ah, Cupid, how fare you?—come hither, my boy,'
Says Pallas;—'but first, I beseech,
Put your bows in their quiver;—your present employ
Is to heal, not occasion a breach.

'Little Bacchus, poor imp there, has offer'd to prove
His pow'r as superior to mine,
As thine, pretty torturer, exquisite Love,
Is superior to him and his wine.'

'Will Love from the cause of his pleader depart?'
Cried Bacchus—and angrily star'd;
'His chief aid-de-camp, who seduces the heart,
Already for rapture prepar'd.'

'Hush awhile, mighty wranglers (cried Cupid) I pray,
Or, by Venus! I sheer off the stage;
I protest I'm quite scar'd by this hideous affray,
And my nerves are unstrung for an age.

'Now mark my decision impartial and plain,
Both are mighty in different ways;
And neither infringing the other's domain,
May command equal tribute of praise.

'You, beauteous Minerva, too closely pursued,
Will harass and torture the mind;
While Bacchus, with tempting allurements endued,
Is often destructively kind.

'The flowers of knowledge lead mortals astray,
To grasp them they forfeit their ease;
And, Bacchus, thy votaries, stupidly gay,
See not poison conceal'd in thy lees.

'Then to steer clear of madness, and pale melancholy,
I will strew my gay roses between;
Each in turn shall be sued, without sadness or folly,
And Love shall embellish the scene.'