This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?--
Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine,
When _first_ the rosy drops come out,
How beautiful, how clear they shine!
And thus awhile they keep their tint,
So free from even a shade with some,
That they would smile, did you but hint,
That darker drops would _ever_ come.
But soon the ruby tide runs short,
Each minute makes the sad truth plainer,
Till life, like old and crusty port,
When near its close, requires a strainer.
_This_ friendship can alone confer,
Alone can teach the drops to pass,
If not as bright as _once_ they were,
At least unclouded, thro' the glass.
Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine.
Of which this heart were fonder, vainer,
Than thus, if life grow like old wine,
To have _thy_ friendship for its strainer.
[1] A wine-merchant.