But first the fuel’d chimney blazes wide; The tankards foam; and the strong table groans Beneath the smoking sirloin, stretch’d immense From side to side; in which with desperate knife The deep incision make, and talk the while Of England’s glory, ne’er to be defaced While hence they borrow vigour; or amain Into the pasty plunged at intervals, If stomach keen can intervals allow, Relating all the glories of the chace. Then sated Hunger bids his brother Thirst Produce the mighty bowl; the mighty bowl, Swell’d high with fiery juice, steams liberal round A potent gale, delicious as the breath Of Mäia to the love-sick shepherdess On violets diffus’d, while soft she hears Her panting shepherd stealing to her arms. Nor wanting is the brown October, drawn Mature and perfect from his dark retreat Of thirty years; and now his honest front Flames in the light refulgent, not afraid Even with the vineyard’s best produce to vie. * * * * * At last these puling idlenesses laid Aside, frequent and full the dry divan Close in firm circle; and set ardent in For serious drinking. Nor evasion sly, Nor sober shift, is to the puking wretch Indulg’d apart; but earnest brimming bowls Lave every soul, the table floating round, And pavement, faithless to the fuddled foot. * * * * * Before their maudlin eyes Seen dim and blue the double tapers dance, Like the sun wading through the misty sky. Then sliding soft, they drop. Confus’d above Glasses and bottles, pipes and gazeteers, As if the table even itself was drunk, Lie a wet broken scene; and wide below Is heap’d the social slaughter: where astride The lubber Power in filthy triumph sits Slumbrous, inclining still from side to side, And steeps them drench’d in potent sleep till morn. Perhaps some doctor, of tremendous paunch Awful and deep, a black abyss of drink, Outlives them all; and from his buried flock Retiring, full of rumination sad, Laments the weakness of these latter times. In _Autumn_, somewhat later, he sings the praises of _cider_:-- The piercing cider for the thirsty tongue; Thy native theme and boon inspirer too, Phillips, Pomona’s bard, the second thou Who nobly durst in rhyme-unfetter’d verse With British freedom sing the British song; How from Silurian vats high-sparkling wines Foam in transparent floods; some strong to cheer The wintry revels of the labouring hind; And tasteful some to cool the summer hours. Again, we read a few lines later of the autumnal vintage:--