In 1835, however, Morris revisited the Society, who then presented him with a large silver bowl, appropriately inscribed, as a testimonial of their affectionate esteem; and the venerable bard thus addressed the brotherhood:--
"Well, I'm come, my dear friends, your kind wish to obey, And drive, by light mirth, all Life's shadows away; And turn the heart's sighs to the throbbings of joy, And a grave aged man to a merry old boy. 'Tis a bold transformation, a daring design, And not past the power of Friendship and Wine; And I trust that e'en yet this warm mixture will raise A brisk spark of light o'er the shade of my days."
Shortly after this effusion, he thus alluded to the treasured gift of the Society:--
"When my spirits are low, for relief and delight, I still place your splendid Memorial in sight; And call to my Muse, when care strives to pursue, 'Bring the Steaks to my Memory and the Bowl to my view.' When brought, at its sight all the _blue devils_ fly, And a world of gay visions rise bright to my eye; Cold Fear shuns the cup where warm Memory flows; And Grief, shamed by Joy, hides his budget of Woes. 'Tis a pure holy fount, where for ever I find A sure double charm for the Body and Mind; For I feel while I'm cheer'd by the drop that I lift, I'm Blest by the Motive that hallows the Gift."
How nicely tempered is this chorus to our Bard's "Life's a Fable:"--
"Then roll along, my lyric song; It seasons well the table, And tells a truth to Age and Youth, That Life's a fleeting fable.
Thus Mirth and Woe the brighter show From rosy wine's reflection; From first to last, this truth hath past-- 'Twas made for Care's correction. Now what those think who water drink, Of these old rules of Horace, I sha'n't now show; but this I know, His rules do well for _Morris_. Old Horace, when he dipp'd his pen, 'Twas wine he had resort to; He chose for use Falernian juice, As I choose old Oporto; At every bout an ode came out, Yet Bacchus kept him twinkling; As well aware more fire was there, Which wanted but the sprinkling."
At Brockham, Morris "drank the pure pleasures of the rural life" long after many a gay light of his own time had flickered out, and become almost forgotten. At length, his course ebbed away, July 11, 1838, in his ninety-third year; his illness, which was only of four days, was internal inflammation. The attainment of so great an age, and the recollection of Morris's associations, show him to have presented a rare combination of mirth and prudence. He retained his _gaîté de coeur_ to the last; so that with equal truth he remonstrated: