90 LINES ON A FOSSIL TREE, 



Hail thou ! the mighty relic of the world 

 Yet young ; libations we will pour to thee ; 

 Not juice of vine in noisy riot purled, 

 But wise men's sober beverage best Bohea ; 



With cream (not of bos priscus), and the sweet 



That flows from better cane than calamite ; 



And these and more do gentle fingers mete 



Deep in thy out-dug bed, on wide-spread board so white. 



