Drinking from a Glass of Wine and Drowned Therein[196]
Thou, born to sip the lake or spring, Or quaff the waters of the stream, Why hither come on vagrant wing?-- Does Bacchus tempting seem-- Did he, for you, this glass prepare?-- Will I admit you to a share?
Did storms harass or foes perplex, Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay-- Did wars distress, or labours vex, Or did you miss your way?-- A better seat you could not take Than on the margin of this lake.
Welcome!--I hail you to my glass: All welcome, here, you find; Here, let the cloud of trouble pass, Here, be all care resigned.-- This fluid never fails to please, And drown the griefs of men or bees.
What forced you here, we cannot know, And you will scarcely tell-- But cheery we would have you go And bid a glad farewell: On lighter wings we bid you fly, Your dart will now all foes defy.
Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink, And in this ocean die; Here bigger bees than you might sink, Even bees full six feet high. Like Pharoah, then, you would be said To perish in a sea of red.
Do as you please, your will is mine; Enjoy it without fear-- And your grave will be this glass of wine, Your epitaph--a tear-- Go, take your seat in Charon's boat, We'll tell the hive, you died afloat.
While onward moves each circling year Thy mandates, Nature, all obey, As with this moving, changeful sphere The seasons change and never stay; Old Oak, I to your place return, Where late you stood, and viewing mourn,
For the great loss my heart sustained When you declined, long will I sigh, That hour when you no more remained To cheer the summer, passing by; No longer blessed my eager view, But like some dying friend withdrew.
Though frequent, by that nipping frost, The blast which cold November sends, I saw your leafy honours lost; Hope, for such losses, made amends: The spring again beheld them grow, And we were pleased, and so was you.
Since I your fatal fall survive, Remembrance long shall hold you dear, And bid some young successor live; By sad Amyntor planted here; Its buds to swell, its leaves to spread, And shade the place when he is dead.
A prince among your towering race, What more your vanished form endears Is that your presence in this place Had been at least one hundred years; And men that long in dust have laid, When boys, beneath your shadow played.