Classic Poem

When unto me they bring, with gentle care,
Thy nectar, sleeping in the cobwebbed flask,
There is no boon of fairy gods to ask
More pain-annihilating or more rare.

The gloomy gray of storm-clouds seemeth fair,
Thou makest light the long day's onerous task,
Uplifted lies life's tedium and its mask,
Light, love and laughter enter everywhere.

And then I see old bankers, flushed with pride,
Converse on politics, and gold, and Pitt;
But cheerier far, in some dim tavern's nook,
I see in dreams dear Jerrold, by the side
Of glorious Thackeray, listening to the wit
And gay, infectious laugh of Theodore Hook!