An amber stream the gods might sip,
And fear no morrow's parched lip.

But therefore, gods? Those idle toys
Were soulless to real _Canadian_ boys!

What classic goblet ever felt
Such thrilling touches through it melt,

As throb electric along a straw,
When the boyish lips the cider draw?

The years are heavy with weary sounds,
And their discords life's sweet music drowns

But yet I hear, oh, sweet! oh, sweet!
The rill that bathed my bare, brown feet;

And yet the cider drips and falls
On my inward ear at intervals

And I lead at times in a sad, sweet dream
To the bubbling of that little stream;

And I sit in a visioned autumn still,
In the sunny door of the cider mill.

--WHITTIER.