Lehigh University
The Vault at PfaffsAn Archive of Art and Literature by the Bohemians of Antebellum New York
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Text for Page 138

              124
  The punch-bowl in the middle;
That pleasing bowl;
To flow of soul
  Is as rosin to the fiddle.

Yet, stout old earth
And fount of mirth
  You see we don�t forget you;
You�ve had, I trow,
Like us enow
  Hard knocks since last we met you.

And, �storied urn,�
No truth we spurn,
  (But, here, confessed it be must,
The poet�s text
Doth place you vext
  The �animated bust.�)

Your tipsy vapor
Cuts a caper,
  Curls towards the fields elysian;
It mounts amain,
It seeks my brain,
  And gives me wider vision.
	������������
x Presented by general contribution of the family, some years ago               
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