Praise who will the duller liquor
Juice of Portugal or Spain;
Fill for me with lighter—quicker—
Fill for me with Rose Champagne.
See the glass its foam upgiving,
Creaming—beading—round the brim,
Such, were old Anacreon living,
Such should be the wine for him!
Elixir blest! Bacchus and Flora,
'Twas He proposed—She smiled compliance—
Thee—a spell for mortal sorrow,
Thee devised in gay alliance.
Full of the plan, they leapt delighted
From leafy couch, where each reposes,
And while they plied their task united,
(One gave the grapes, and one the roses.)
Young Love stood near, with curious eye,
And heedful watched the chemic union,
And smiled to think how, by and bye,
The play of looks, the soul's communion,
And the tied tongue's first liberty
Should thrive beneath that magic essence.
And what, thou glorious alchemy!
What though thy primal effervescence,
Like Love's, too bright—too dear to stay—
Like Love's—die almost in the tasting—
Yet each I snatch, as best I may;
Ah! why are both so little lasting.