INSCRIBED TO GEO. H. BOKER .

I.

Dear friend, while now the dews are shed
Along the vintage crowned Rhine;
And day departs with purple tread,
Fresh dripping from the land of wine:

Here, o'er a flask of Rudesheim,
Your shade with me shall drain the bowl,
While in this passing cup of rhyme
I pour the fulness of my soul.

And you shall drain as I have drained
The golden goblet of your song,
Till in my heart a pleasure reigned,
Like Bacchus 'mid his wreathed throng.

II.

And blame me not, that while she sings
My Muse not always strives to soar, —
If, folding her o'erwearied wings,
She warbles when her flight is o'er.

It may be that more oft than well
I've woke the melancholy lyre;
Then frown not if I break the spell,
And touch at times a lighter wire.

If it has been my wont to quaff
And drain the chalice' darker tide,
What marvel, if I stop and laugh
To see the satyrs on its side?

III.

What, though you bid me hoard my hours,
And say you see my life-star pale,
Have I not walked amid the flowers
That bloom in the enchanted vale?

Though I had, on a lotus bed,
Dreamed the wild dreams that few may dare,
Till the o'ershadowing laurel shed
Its leaves of poison on my hair;

I do believe the gods are just, —
They will not break the unfinished chord,
Nor dash the goblet in the dust
Until its latest draught be poured.

IV.

Then fill, dear friend, again immerse
The lip that shall approve the rhyme;
A richer beauty gilds the verse
When seen through cups of Rudesheim

And if within my tuneful task
I wake too oft the mournful note,
Then pour again the golden flask,
For it has laughter in its throat.

And while I deem you sit and quaff,
I shall no longer be alone,
Nor think my dusty pack and staff
My sole companions in Cologne.