I. THE TANKARD OF WINE. OH, what delight is in the air What time the new-born spring is there! Beside the flaming maple stands, While the oak, with priestly hands Or how it half forgot to pass From spice-wood boughs and sassafras; And, like the soul of a mocking-bird, Each sweeter for being brought afar, Such Esther knew were the delights Fresh breathing of the wood and field, For joys the city could not yield. Had she a pleasure in her breast, 'Twas true, her captive chains were light,— Which flowers, though twined with subtlest art, Could not make welcome to her heart: They could but hide from others' stare The galling weight she knew was there. The city and its farthest street Sir Hugh grew daily more appeased: Would bow and sue for liberty. But no! they had assailed his pride: He would not bow the suppliant limb,— Bowed supplely low to him and her; In secret to the patriot side Made him obeisance; for they deemed He might be other than he seemed. These flattering tributes to him paid Gave sweet contentment, and he stayed. 'Twas twilight, and the evening air Came dancing over Delaware, Fanning the easy sailor's hair, Who laughed and quaffed away his care, Aflush with pleasure and with wine: 'Twas noble, they said,-or rather swore,With such a general to dine. Each face was scarlet as their dress: The whole man seemed to loom and shine, As if the red blood of the vine Its glowing presence would express "Ho, landlord of the 'Ship and Sheaf,' Bring us a flagon, and be brief! |