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Their loudest pecans were outpour’d 
When freely at the festal board 
Thy nectar flow’d; 
When in the cup it mov’d aright, 
And to the eye like ruby bright, 
Its colour show’d. 
Whilst I — I love thee best, fair vine. 
When thou from tree to tree dost twine 
Thy fruitful boughs; 
When pleasant both to sight and taste, 
With more than fabled beauty grac’d, 
Each cluster glows. 
If glad of heart, I ’ll sit and dream 
Of vintage time, and to the theme 
With cadence true 
I ’ll wake to blithsome strains my lute, 
Blithsome yet pure — as on thy fruit 
“ The living dew.” 
If grave — oh! is’t not thine to take 
A more than moral tone, and wake 
Sweet Sabbath moods, 
