The Solitary, and other poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Kirke twitch'd him by the sleeve:—“Old lad,
Thou com'st in time to be made glad;
Sit down; art hungry?—and prepare
To let thy spirit dance in air.
I have wine here, so ripe and rare,
That in a trice the leaden soul,
Groping in darkness like a mole,
Touch'd by the blessing, springs to light,
And mounts to heaven, as of right:—
Down—we will have a merry night.”

123

They sit: but Kirke, though press'd to eat,
Tastes sparingly the luscious meat,
And kneaded bread of whitest wheat;
But lifts his cup full oft, and drinks
Till his eyes sparkle through his winks.
“'Tis good: I trace is as it sinks,
And note it prancing through my veins,
Like a gay troop through narrow lanes.
Ha! ha!”

“Yet, eat, good Kirke.”

“I can't;
This is the minister I want,
Heart-cheering wine: my throat is tight,
As though bound by a silken cord,
The self-same cord which, on that night,
Sent old Uberti to the Lord.
Did he die rich? was this his gear?
These goblets that do service here?”