This life, dear C----y,--who can doubt?--
Resembles much friend Ewart’s[83] wine;
When first the ruby drops flow out,
How beautiful, how clear they shine!
And thus awhile they keep their tint,
So free from ev’n a shade,--that some
Would smile, did you but dare to hint,
That darker drops would ever come.
But soon, alas, the tide runs short;--
Each minute makes the sad truth plainer;
Till Life, like Ewart’s crusty Port,
When near its close, requires a _strainer_.
This, Friendship, can, alone, supply,--
Alone can teach the drops to pass,
If not with all their rosiest dye,
At least, unclouded, through the glass.
Nor, C----y, could a boon be mine,
Of which this heart were fonder, vainer,
Than thus, if Life be like old wine,
To have thy friendship for its strainer!