ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine,-it tells of good old

times,

Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave,

and true,

That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl

was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar,- so runs the ancient tale;

'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,

He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the

same;

And oft, as on the ancient stock another twig was

found,

'T was filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and

schnaps.

And then, of course, you know what's next,-it left the Dutchman's shore

With those that in the Mayflower came,

--

a hundred

Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing

dim,

When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to

the brim;

The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,

And all his sturdy men at arms were ranged about the the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,- the man that never feared,

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;

And one by one the musketeers, — the men that fought and prayed,

All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith

and kin,

"Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!"

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's

nose;

When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth

or joy,

'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting

boy.

Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good,-poor child, you 'll never bear

This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight

air;

And if,-God bless me,-you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill;

So John did drink,- and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;

I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol

here.

'Tis but the fool that loves excess;-hast thou a drunken soul?

Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past,-its pressed yet fragrant flowers,

The moss that clothes its broken walls,—the ivy on its towers,

Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed,- my eyes grow moist and dim,

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to

me;

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the

sin,

That dooms one to those dreadful words,-"My dear, where have you been?"