VINE. 
205 
Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil, 
Her fond idolatry is fled; 
Her sighs no more their sweets exhale,— 
The loving eye is cold and dead. 
Canst thou not trace a moral here, 
False flatterer of the prosperous hour? 
Let but an adverse cloud appear, 
And thou art faithless as the flower! 
THE VINE. 
The grateful juice of the vine has been given to cheer 
the heart of man; and though, alas 1 it is too often used 
as the excitement to unseemly revelry, where men degrade 
themselves to the condition of the brutes, over which they 
were created lords, we confess we like to see 
Depending vines the shelving caverns screen, 
With purple clusters blushing through the green. 
rorE. 
But oh ! let vines luxuriant roll 
Their blushing tendrils round the bowl. 
ANACREON. 
