Classic Poem

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,
'T will chase that pensive tear;
'T is not so sweet as woman's lip,
But, oh! 't is more sincere.

Like her delusive beam,
'T will steal away thy mind:
But, truer than love's dream,
It leaves no sting behind.

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
These flowers were culled at noon;—
Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But, ah! not half so soon.
For though the flower's decayed,
Its fragrance is not o'er;
But once when love's betrayed,
Its sweet life blooms no more.