Song
We break the glass, whose sacred wine,
To some beloved health we drain,
Lest future pledges, less divine,
Should e’er the hallowed toy profane:
And thus I broke a heart that poured
Its tide of feelings out for thee,
In draughts, by after times deplored,
Yet dear to memory.
But still the old empassioned ways
And habits of my mind remain,
And still unhappy light displays
Thine image chambered in my brain;
And still it looks as when the hours
Went by like flights of living birds,
Or that soft chain of spoken flowers
And airy gems, thy words.
Footnote
13 Mr. Charles Weathers Bump, Ph. D. (Johns-Hopkins), says this name should be Coote, as it so stands in the register of Pinkney’s baptism, which he has seen.
Limited space permits us to give view of only one of the buildings of this great institution.