THE JULEP
’Tis said that the gods on Olympus of old—
And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?—
One night at their revels by Bacchus were told
That the last butt of nectar had somehow run out.
But determined to send ’round the goblet once more,
They sent to the fair immortals for aid
In composing a draught which, till drinking was o’er,
Should throw every wine ever drunk in the shade.
Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded the corn;
And the spirit that dwells in each amber-hued grain,
And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn,
Was taught to steal out in bright dew drops again.
Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board
Lay scattered profusely in everyone’s reach,
When called on a tribute to cull from her hoard,
Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.
The spirits were mingled, while Venus looked on
With glances so fraught with sweet, magical power
That the honey of Hybla e’en when it was gone
Has never been wiped from the draught till this hour.
Flora then from her bosom of fragrancy took
And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,
All dripping and wet, as it came from the brook,
The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.
The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim.
Yet something yet wanted, they all did bewail,
But juleps the drink of immortals became
When Jove himself added a handful of hail.
—Hoffman.