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 dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.
A Spanish galleon brought the bar-so runs the ancient tale-
'Twas hammered 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 quaffed 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 filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.
But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,
Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,
But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,
He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps.
And then, of course, you know what's next-it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came,- -a hundred souls and more,Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes
To 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 filled it to the brim.
The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,
And all his sturdy men at arms were ranged about the board.
He poured the fiery hollands in-the man that never feared-
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;
And one by one the musketeers, the men that fought and prayed,
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 learned 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 flattened down each little cherub's nose;
When once again the bowl was filled, 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 pressed yet fragrant flowers— The moss that clothes its broken walls-the ivy on its towersNay, this poor bauble it bequeathed-my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished 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?"
A NOOK within the forest; overhead
The branches arch, and shape a pleasant bower,
Breaking white cloud, blue sky and sunshine bright, Into pure ivory and sapphire spots,
And flecks of gold; a soft cool emerald tint
Colours the air, as though the delicate leaves
Emitted self-born light. What splendid walls
And what a gorgeous roof carved by the hand
Of glorious Nature! Here the spruce thrusts in
Its bristling plume, tipp'd with its pale green points;
The scallop'd beech leaf, and the birch's cut
Into fine ragged edges, interlace:
While here and there, through clefts, the laurel lifts
Its snowy chalices half-brimm'd with dew,
As though to hoard it for the haunting elves
The moonlight calls to this their festal hall,
A thick, rich, grassy carpet clothes the earth,
Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The fern displays
Its fluted wreath beaded beneath with drops
Of richest brown; the wild-rose spreads its breast
Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging fir
Has dropp'd its dark, long cone.
Without, makes this green nest a grateful haunt
For summer's radiant things; the butterfly
Fluttering within and resting on some flower,
Fans his rich velvet form; the toiling bee
Shoots by, with sounding hum and mist-like wings;
The robin perches on the bending spray
With shrill, quick chirp; and like a flake of fire
The redbird seeks the shelter of the leaves.
And now and then a flutter overhead
In the thick green, betrays some wandering wing
Coming and going, yet conceal'd from sight.
A shrill, loud outery-on yon highest bough
Sits the gray squirrel, in his burlesque wrath
Stamping and chattering fiercely: now he drops
A hoarded nut, then at my smiling gaze
Buries himself within the foliage.
The insect tribe are here; the ant toils on
With its white burthen; in its netted web
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