“Who gave this cup?” The secret thou wouldst steal
   Its brimming flood forbids it to reveal: 
   No mortal’s eye shall read it till he first
   Cool the red throat of thirst.

   If on the golden floor one draught remain,
   Trust me, thy careful search will be in vain;
   Not till the bowl is emptied shalt thou know
   The names enrolled below.

   Deeper than Truth lies buried in her well
   Those modest names the graven letters spell
   Hide from the sight; but, wait, and thou shalt see
   Who the good angels be

   Whose bounty glistens in the beauteous gift
   That friendly hands to loving lips shall lift: 
   Turn the fair goblet when its floor is dry,
   Their names shall meet thine eye.

   Count thou their number on the beads of Heaven,
   Alas! the clustered Pleiads are but seven;
   Nay, the nine sister Muses are too few,
   —­The Graces must add two.

   “For whom this gift?” For one who all too long
   Clings to his bough among the groves of song;
   Autumn’s last leaf, that spreads its faded wing
   To greet a second spring.

   Dear friends, kind friends, whate’er the cup may hold,
   Bathing its burnished depths, will change to gold
   Its last bright drop let thirsty Maenads drain,
   Its fragrance will remain.

   Better love’s perfume in the empty bowl
   Than wine’s nepenthe for the aching soul
   Sweeter than song that ever poet sung,
   It makes an old heart young!

III

After the reading of the paper which was reported in the preceding number of this record, the company fell into talk upon the subject with which it dealt.

The Mistress.  “I could have wished you had said more about the religious attitude of old age as such.  Surely the thoughts of aged persons must be very much taken up with the question of what is to become of them.  I should like to have The Dictator explain himself a little more fully on this point.”

My dear madam, I said, it is a delicate matter to talk about.  You remember Mr. Calhoun’s response to the advances of an over-zealous young clergyman who wished to examine him as to his outfit for the long journey.  I think the relations between man and his Maker grow more intimate, more confidential, if I may say so, with advancing years.  The old man is less disposed to argue about special matters of belief, and more ready to sympathize with spiritually minded persons without anxious questioning as to the fold to which they belong.  That kindly judgment which he exercises with regard to others he will, naturally enough, apply to himself.  The caressing tone in which the Emperor Hadrian addresses his soul is very much like that of an old person talking with a grandchild or some other pet: 

  “Animula, vagula, blandula,
   Hospes comesque corporis.”