BY C. F. HOFFMAN.
Blame not the Bowl—the fruitful Bowl! Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, And amber drops elysian roll, To bathe young Love's delighted wing. What like the grape Osiris gave Makes rigid age so lithe of limb? Illumines Memory's tearful wave, And teaches drowning Hope to swim? Did Ocean from his radiant arms To earth another Venus give, He ne'er could match the mellow charms That in the breathing beaker live.
Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard In characters that mock the sight, Till some kind liquid, o'er them poured, Brings all their hidden warmth to light— Are feelings bright, which, in the cup, Though graven deep, appear but dim, Till filled with glowing Bacchus up, They sparkle on the foaming brim. Each drop upon the first you pour Brings some new tender thought to life, And as you fill it more and more, The last with fervid soul is rife.
The island fount, that kept of old Its fabled path beneath the sea, And fresh, as first from earth it rolled, From earth again rose joyously; Bore not beneath the bitter brine, Each flower upon its limpid tide, More faithfully than in the wine, Our hearts will toward each other glide. Then drain the cup, and let thy soul Learn, as the draught delicious flies, Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, Truth beaming at the bottom lies.
MELODY.
BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.
If yon bright stars, which gem the night, Be each a blissful dwelling sphere, Where kindred spirits re-unite Whom death has torn asunder here, How sweet it were at once to die, And leave this blighted orb afar, Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky, And soar away from star to star.
But oh, how dark, how drear and lone, Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If wandering through each radiant one We failed to find the loved of this; If there no more the ties shall twine That death's cold hand alone could sever; Ah! then these stars in mockery shine, More hateful as they shine for ever.
It cannot be each hope, each fear, That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now. There is a voice which sorrow hears, When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers—Dry thy tears, The pure in heart shall meet again.