LOOK NOT THOU UPON THE WINE
WHEN IT IS BED."
OH, soft sleep the hills in their sunny repose,
In the lands of the south, where the vine gayly grows!
And blithesome the hearts of the vintagers be,
In the grape-purpled vales of the isles of the sea!
And fair is the wine when its splendor is poured
From silver and gold round the festival board,
When the magic of music awakes in its power,
And wit gilds the fast falling sands of the hour!
Yet lift not the wine-cup, though pleasure may swim
Mid the bubbles that flash round the roseate brim;
For dark in the depths of the fountains below,
Are the sirens that lurk by the vortex of woe!
They have lured the gay spirit of childhood astray,
While it dreamed not of wiles on its radiant way,
And the soft cheek of beauty they've paled in its bloom,
And quenched her bright eyes in the damp of the tomb.
They have torn the live wreath from the brow of the brave,
And changed his proud heart to the heart of a slave;
And e'en the fair fame of the good and the just,
With the gray hairs of age, they have trampled in dust.
Then lift not the wine-cup, though pleasure may swim
Like an angel of light round its roseate brim;
For dark in the depths of the fountain below,
Are the sirens that lurk by the vortex of woe!
Selected.