Classic Poem

Nay, frown not fairest, chide no more,
Nor blame the blushing wine;
Its fiery kiss is innocent,
When thrills the pulse with thine.
So leave the goblet in my hand,
But vail thy glances bright,
Lest wine and beauty mingling
Should wreck my soul to-night.

Then, Ida, to the ancient rim
In sculptured beauty rare,
Bow down thy red-arched lip and quaff
The wine that conquers care;
Or breathe upon the shining cup
Till that its perfume be
Sweet as the scent of orange groves,
Upon some tropic sea.

And while thy fingers idly stray
In dalliance o'er the lyre,
Sing to me, love, some rare old song
That gushed from heart of fire—
Song such as Grecian phalanx hymned
When freedom's field was won,
And Persia's glory with the light
Faded at Marathon.

Sing till the shouts of armed men
Ring bravely out once more:
Sing till again the ghost-white tents
Shine on the moon-lit shore;
Bid from their melancholy graves
The buried hopes to start,
I knew ere many a storm had swept
The dew-drops from my heart.

Sing the deep memories of the past,
My soul shall follow thee,
Its boundless depths re-echoing
Thy glorious minstrelsy;
And as the wild vibrations hang
Enfettered on the air,
I'll drink, thy white arms round me, love,
The wine that conquers care.