SONG.

“‘ Tis the Vine!‘ tis the Vine!” said the cup-loving boy As he saw it spring bright from the earth, And called the young Genii of Wit, Love, and Joy, To witness and hallow its birth.

The fruit was full grown, like a ruby it flamed Till the sunbeam that kist it looked pale; “‘ Tis the Vine!‘ tis the Vine!” every Spirit exclaimed “Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”

First, fleet as a bird to the summons Wit flew, While a light on the vine-leaves there broke In flashes so quick and so brilliant all knew T'was the light from his lips as he spoke.

“Bright tree! let thy nectar but cheer me,” he cried, “And the fount of Wit never can fail:” “‘ Tis the Vine!‘ tis the Vine!” hills and valleys reply, “Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”

Next Love as he leaned o'er the plant to admire Each tendril and cluster it wore, From his rosy mouth sent such a breath of desire, As made the tree tremble all o'er.

Oh! never did flower of the earth, sea, or sky, Such a soul-giving odor inhale: “‘ Tis the Vine!‘ tis the Vine!” all re-echo the cry, “Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”

Last, Joy, without whom even Love and Wit die, Came to crown the bright hour with his ray; And scarce had that mirth-waking tree met his eye, When a laugh spoke what Joy could not say;—

A laugh of the heart which was echoed around Till like music it swelled on the gale: “T is the Vine!‘ tis the Vine!” laughing myriads resound, “Hail, hail to the Wine-tree, all hail!”