: 1Is sceH that ye rgiect the cup.
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BY W. B. TAPPAN. %yS. Tis we'll that ye reject the cup Whose dregs are poison all; Nor round your hearth the beverage sup, Nor at the banquet hall. The foaming draught ye dash away From temperate lips-'twere well Could ye the thousands check, who stray Madly,- unto that hell. o, God the generous youth to see,' Their country's truest pride Who to that 'whelming vortex flee And perish in the tide. OGod! the maniac-tribe to know, That swell the guilty scroll: And writhe meath selfinficted ro, The vulture of the soul. Sword, flesh thy yet unsated blade or thousands drink the gore: Yet hath the cup inglorions laid In death, it's thousands more. Arrow of night, seek out the host, And htd it's thckest bow: Yet shalfthat chalice trophies boast, Pestilence more than thou. Beware nor wonder goblest grasp, Now sparkling to the hrim: Though pearls of prlce 'twere thine 10 clasp, Though gems shone round the rim The purple juice mantling alright, That far it's fragrance filings Avoid it. tis to reasons sight A serpent armed with stings.