THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas chimes; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. A Spanish galleon brought the bar, -- so runs the ancient tale; 'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail, He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale. 'T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'T was filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps. And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's shore With those that in the Mayflower came, -- a hundred souls and more, -- Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes, -- To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim; The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board. He poured the fiery Hollands in, -- the man that never feared, -- He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by one the musketeers--the men that fought and prayed -- All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid. That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin: "Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!" A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose, When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, -- 'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. "Drink, John," she said, "'t will do you good, -- poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if -- God bless me! -- you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill." So John did drink, -- and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill! I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here: 'T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl! I love the memory of the past, -- its pressed yet fragrant flowers, -- The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers; Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, -- my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words, -- "My dear, where have you been?" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JULY IN GEORGY by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE by BEN JONSON SONNET: TO SLEEP by JOHN KEATS TO GOD AND IRELAND TRUE by ELLEN O'LEARY TWO POEMS TO HANS THOMA ON HIS SIXIETH BIRTHDAY: 2. THE KNIGHT by RAINER MARIA RILKE PSALM 39. DIXI CUSTODIAM by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE BATTERSEA PARK by CHARLES WILLIAM BRODRIBB |