HORACE IN LONDON.

Old liquor born on my birthday, a twin to me,

Whether ordained wit and mirth to put into me,

Or passions that witch and defy us,

Or, peradventure, the sleep of the pious.

Vaunt not its shippers, my friend, but produce it—an

Actual, "forty-five," languorous Lusitan,

Befitting, whate'er be its label,

You, my good host, and the guest at your table.

Steeped though you frown in this dryasdust clever age,

Dare you presume to resist such a beverage?

Why, ELDON, that dragon of virtue,

Never imagined its vintage could hurt you.

Liquor like this from a bottle whose crust is whole,

Liquor like this rubs the rust from the rusty soul;

The faddist it mellows: the private

Secrets of State it can somehow arrive at.

Under its spell frolics Hypochondriasis;

Poverty learns what a millionnaire's bias is,

Yes, Poverty, such a spell under,

Laughs at the County Court's impotent thunder.

Fill, then! A bumper we'll empty between us to

Bacchus, the Pas-de-trois Graces, and Venus too,

With all of that classical ilk, man—

Till the stars fade with the morn and the milkman.