On Lending A Punch-Bowl

This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times,     Of joyous days and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times;     They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true,     Who dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new.     A Spanish galleon brought the bar, - so runs the ancient tale;     'T was hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;     And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail,     He wiped his brow and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.     'T was purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame,     Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same;     And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found,     'T was filled with candle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.     But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine,     Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine,     But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps,     He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnapps.     And then, of course, you know what's next: it left the Dutchman's shore     With those that in the Mayflower came, - a hundred souls and more, -     Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes, -     To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.     'T was on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing, dim,     When brave Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;     The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,     And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.     He poured the fiery Hollands in, - the man that never feared, -     He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;     And one by one the musketeers - the men that fought and prayed -     All drank as 't were their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.     That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,     He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;     And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin,     Run from the white man when you find he smells of "Hollands gin!"     A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,     A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose,     When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy, -     'T was mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.     Drink, John, she said, 't will do you good, - poor child, you'll never bear     This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air;     And if - God bless me! - you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill.     So John did drink, - and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!     I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;     I tell you, 't was a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here.     'T is but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul?     Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!     I love the memory of the past, - its pressed yet fragrant flowers, -     The moss that clothes its broken walls, the ivy on its towers;     Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed, - my eyes grow moist and dim,     To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.     Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me;     The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;     And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin     That dooms one to those dreadful words, - "My dear, where HAVE you been?"