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Stockbridge Bowl!—Hast ever seen How sweetly pure and bright Its foot of stone, and rim of green, Attract the traveller's sight? High set among the breezy hills Where spotless marble glows, It takes the tribute of the rills Distilled from mountain snows.

You've seen, perchance, the classic vase At Adrian's villa found, The grape-vines, that its handles chase, And twine its rim around, But thousands such as that which boasts The Roman's name to keep, Might in this Stockbridge bowl be lost Like pebbles in the deep.

It yields no sparkling draught of fire To mock the maddened brain, Like that which warmed Anacreon's lyre Amid the Tean plain;