While thus the blissful moments rolled

While thus the blissful moments rolled,
Moments of rare and fleeting light,
That show themselves, like grains of gold
In the mine's refuse, few and and bright;
Behold where, opening far away,
The long Conservatory's range,
Stript of the flowers it wore all day,
But gaining lovelier in exchange,
Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware,
A supper such as Gods might share.

Ah much-loved Supper! — blithe repast
Of other times, now dwindling fast,
Since Dinner far into the night
Advanced the march of appetite;
Deployed his never-ending forces
Of various vintage and three courses,
And, like those Goths who played the dickens
With Rome and all her sacred chickens,
Put Supper and her fowls so white,
Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.
Now waked once more by wine — whose tide
Is the true Hippoorene, where glide
The Muse's swans with happiest wing,
Dipping their bills before they sing —
The minstrels of the table greet
The listening ear with descant sweet: —
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