OF all the gracious gifts of Spring, Is there another can surpass This delicate, voluptuous thing,— This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass?
Upon a damask napkin laid, What exhalations superfine Our gustatory nerves pervade, Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine!
The ancients loved this noble fish; And, coming from the kitchen fire All piping hot upon a dish, What raptures did he not inspire?
“Fish should swim twice,” they used to say,— Once in their native, vapid brine, And then again, a better way — You understand; fetch on the wine!
Ah, dainty monarch of the flood, How often have I cast for you, How often sadly seen you scud Where weeds and water-lilies grew!
How often have you filched my bait, How often snapped my treacherous line! Yet here I have you on this plate,— You shall swim twice, and now in wine.
And, harkee, garcon! let the blood Of cobwebbed years be spilled for him,— Ay, in a rich Burgundian flood This piscatorial pride should swim;
So, were he living, he would say He gladly died for me and mine, And, as it were his native spray, He'd lash the sauce — what, ho! the wine!
I would it were ordained for me To share your fate, O finny friend! I surely were not loath to be Reserved for such a noble end;
For when old Chronos, gaunt and grim, At last reels in his ruthless line, What were my ecstasy to swim In wine, in wine, in glorious wine!
Well, here's a health to you, sweet Spring! And, prithee, whilst I stick to earth, Come hither every year and bring The boons provocative of mirth;
And should your stock of bass run low, However much I might repine, I think I might survive the blow, If plied with wine and still more wine!
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