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.