Anacreontic.

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip, 'Twill chase that pensive tear; 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, But, oh! 'tis more sincere. Like her delusive beam, 'Twill 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.