THE OLD DRINKING GOURD

A deep alcove where clambering vine

Enfashioned wreathes of green festoon,

Where through the long, long afternoon

No ray of summer's sultry shine

E'er kissed the rustic grape-vine swing:

High up the purpling muscadine

Clung close to where the waters poured,

And he saw the glint of the redbird's wing

In the crystal wave of the mossy spring,

As she stooped for the Old Drinking Gourd.

The odor tint of elder bloom

The zephyrs wafted through the spray

Was fresh as dew at dawn of day,

Caught in the geometric loom,

Arachne plies with subtle hand:

A pigeon bathed his snowy plume,

A fading speck the vulture soared;

And a tide swept in across the sand

As they stood on the brink of the golden strand

And drank from the Old Drinking Gourd.

A palace wrought of art sublime

Where antique paintings haunt the walls,

And gilded foot as silent falls

In depths of plush, as flight of time,

And liquid music softer blows

Than Hymen's mellow golden chime:

They plighted troth beneath the sword

Of the knight that wore the blood red rose;

But they drank of the cup that never flows

From the bowl of the Old Drinking Gourd.

Now sunset spills his scarlet dyes

Through fleecy rifts of snowy cloud,

And night puts on her ebon shroud,

And stars look out of wintry skies:

Still spacious halls with revels ring

Where chivalry with beauty vies,

And red-wine flows at festive board.

But oh! for the cove where the redbirds sing

By the crystal wave of the mossy spring,

And a draught from the Old Drinking Gourd.