Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
"Never was philter form'd with such power
To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,
A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.
There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fill'd
With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,
This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd