Bacchanalian

I pity him who has not swung     The Thyrsus in the air,     And followed Bacchus, blithe and young,     "With vine-leaves in his hair;     And heard the Maenads sing,     And the mad cymbals ring.     I pity those who have to walk     In sober ways and sad,     And keep a guard upon their talk     Lest men should think them mad.     Or careless speech should show     The felon thought below.     When in my goblet, blithe and gay,     The beaded bubbles wink,     For all poor souls like this I pray     That they may learn to drink,     And, like a rose in rain,     Open shut heart and brain.     Who does not drink he does not know,     And he will never find,     What merry fellows live below     The surface of his mind:     These other men to me     Are right good company.     If beings of Mythology     Could live at my commands     Briareus I'd choose to be,     Who had a hundred hands:     And every hand of mine     Would hold a pint of wine     And of those beakers ninety-nine     With white wine and with red     Should brim for dear old friends of mine,     The living and the dead.     By Pluto there would be     A noble revelry!     Then let us unto Bacchus sing     Evoe! up and down-     For Bacchus is the wisest king     Who ever wore a crown:     His vine leaves hide from view     More wit than Plato knew.