LINES READ AT THE REUNION OF A COLLEGE CLUB

Would you have an illustration

Of the thing we fellows are?

Liken every generation

To the bottles in the bar:

Vessels full of precious liquor

Standing in their brave array,— Never bosom friends were thicker

Or of franker heart than they,

There congenially hobnobbing,

Always ready for a bout,

As half laughing and half sobbing

The fine spirits bubble out.

We buy, break, drink, waste, decant them —

Bottles come and bottles go —

Yet there always, when you want them,

Stand the bottles in a row:

Port and sherry, rum and brandy,

Irish, Bourbon, Scotch, and rye,

Always smiling, always handy

When the heart's a trifle dry.

Though the bottles change their label

And tag on another name,

They're as welcome at the table,

For the liquor's still the same.

Days gone by saw jugs in plenty,

Now less frequently on view.

Every year some ten or twenty

Pass to fields and pastures new.

There, replenished, they grow fatter

And their bellies bulge amain,

But though full as yet of matter,

You may mark a certain drain,

For the busy world's contention

Brings the liquid down a bit,

And a small god I wo n't mention

Sometimes takes a pull at it.

Yet apart from some mischances,

Though not standing where they stood,

For big dinners and small dances

Our old bottles still are good.

But when once the dregs are emptied,

We throw bottles in a heap,

Not one favourite exempted,

Were its spirit fine or cheap.

They‘ re doled out in the back alley

By the scrawny hands of hags

When gaunt Death comes shilly-shally

Crying, “Bottles and old rags!”

What of that? While face and feature,

Manners, minds, and pleasures pass,

Mature breeds a younger creature.

Mate to what the other was,

And the sports we had forsaken,

And the fancies blown away

In the brighter souls they waken

Live for ever and a day.

The proud glories that entice us

No more fail because we pass

Than the founts of Dionysus

For the quaffing of a glass.

But what happens to the liquor?

The old bottles’ fate to share,

Only that its flight is quicker

Up the vortices of air?

Is it lost as soon as tasted,

Rising upon moth-like wings

To be caught and scorched and wasted

In this foolish flame of things?

Ah, the blood of nature's spilling

Trickles back into her veins,

And her cup is ever filling

With the vintage that she strains.

For a moment she befriends us

With unsealing of our eyes,

But the light of life she lends us

Floods her everlasting skies.

The sweet wine that makes our passion

Linking heart to mortal heart

Is her ancient fire to fashion

All the marvels of her art.

It has painted woman's beauty,

It is parent to the flowers,

It has wedded joy to duty,

Portioned loves among the hours,

Built us palaces and churches,

Plucked its music from the lyre,

Lighted all the spirit's searches

Through the mazes of desire,

Yes, and scorning earthly places

And our human loves and wars

It has peopled heaven's spaces

And has gilded heaven's stars.

Drink, then, of this cup and drain it.

Let the wine renew the soul,

And all vessels that contain it,

May they long be sound and whole

To receive the boon and give it

That makes mortal joys divine.

Here's to life and all who live it,

To the bottles and the wine.