You lie down to your shady slumber And your damsel that walks in the morning True love is at home on a carpet, His wing is the fan of a lady, His foot's an invisible thing, And his arrow is tipp'd with a jewel, ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, That dipp'd their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. A Spanish galleon brought the bar-so runs the ancient tale; 'Twas hammer'd by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped his brow, and quaff'd a cup of good old Flemish ale. 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, Who saw the cherubs and conceived a longing for the same; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'Twas fill'd with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.. But, changing hands, it reach'd at length a Puritan divine, Who used to follow TIMOTHY, and take a little wine, And then, of course, you know what's next, it left the With those that in the Mayflower came, a hundred souls Along with all their furniture, to fill their new abodesTo judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, When old MILES STANDISH took the bowl, and fill'd it to the brim ; The little Captain stood and stirr'd the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. He pour'd the fiery Hollands in-the man that never fear'd He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by one the musketeers-the men that fought and pray'd All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid. That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the sachem learn'd the rule he taught to kith and kin, 'Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin !' A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flatten'd down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was fill'd, but not in mirth or joy, 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. 'Drink, John,' she said, ''twill do you good, poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if-God bless me !-you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill;' So John did drink,-and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill! I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here: 'Tis but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl! I love the memory of the past-its press'd yet fragrant flowers The moss that clothes its broken walls-the ivy on its towers; Nay, this poor bauble it bequeath'd, my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanish'd joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words-' My dear, where have you been?' THE PUPIL OF MERLIN. [Imitated from the German of Goethe.] GREAT MERLIN of old had a magical trick That would do at his pleasure whatever he wanted; A youthful disciple of Merlin's own school, 'Twas enough, having seen, he must try the experiment: |