Classic Poem

A BANQUET-SCENE. TOAST AND SENTIMENT .

To make a weapon of joy's cup, my friends,
Is a vile Thracian custom;
Shame on such practices!—they mar the ends
Of calm and kindly Bacchus. Bloodshed tends
To sadden and disgust him.

Here, 'mid the bowls, what business hath the sword?
Come, sheathe yon Persian dagger;
Let the bright lamp shine on a quiet board;
Recline in peace—these hours we can't afford
For brawling, sound, and swagger.

Say, shall your chairman fill his cup, and drain
Of brimming bowls another?
Then, first, a TOAST his mandate shall obtain;
He'll know the nymph whose witeoueries enchain
The fair Megilla's brother.

What! silent thus? Dost fear to same aloud
The girl of thy affection?
Youth! let thy choice be candidly avowed;
Thou hast a delicate taste, and art allowed
Some talent for selection.

Yet, if the loud confession thou wilt shun,
To my safe ear discover
Thy cherished secret.…Ah, thou art undone!
What! she? How little such a heartless one
Deserves so fond a lover!

What fiend, what Thracian witch, deaf to remorse,
Hath brewed thy dire love-potion!
Scarce could the hero of the wingèd horse
Effect thy rescue, or—to free thee—force
That dragon of the ocean!