COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE

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COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

COME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief, To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;

This moment's a flower too fair and too brief,

To be wither'd and stained by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,

But while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl,
The fool that would quarrel for difference of hue,
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.

Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No, perish the hearts and the laws that try
Truth, valour, or love by a standard like this.
THOMAS MOORE.

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

ONE bumper at parting! though many
Have circled the board since we met,

The fullest, the saddest of any

Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure hath in it
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas! till the minute
It dies, do we know half its worth.

But come-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of pleasure,

They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

hours

As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile;
But Time, like a pitiless master,
Cries, 'Onward!' and spurs the gay
Ah, never doth Time travel faster
Than when his way lies among flowers.
But come-may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.

We saw how the sun looked in sinking,
The waters beneath him how bright;
And now let our farewell of drinking
Resemble that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim—
So, fill up, let's shine at our parting
In full liquid glory, like him.
And oh, may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this be made up ;
'Twas born on the bosom of pleasure,

It dies 'mid the tears of the cup.

THOMAS MOORE.

FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.

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FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.

FILL the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Wit's electric flame

Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when through the frame

It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Sages can, they say,

Grasp the lightning's pinions,

And bring down its ray

From the starr'd dominions.

So we, sages, sit

And 'mid bumpers brightening,

From the heaven of Wit

Draw down all its lightning.

Wouldst thou know what first
Made our souls inherit

This ennobling thirst

For wine's celestial spirit? It chanced upon that day, When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away

The living fires that warm us.

The careless youth, when up

To Glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup

To hide the pilfer'd fire in.
But oh, his joy! when, round
The halls of heaven spying,
Among the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying.

Some drops were in that bowl,
Remains of last night's pleasure,
With which the sparks of soul
Mix'd their burning treasure.
Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us,
Hence its mighty power

O'er that flame within us.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

THOMAS MOORE.

OH, THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG.

OH, the days when I was young,
When I laugh'd in fortune's spite;

Talk'd of love the whole day long,
And with nectar crown'd the night!

Then it was, old Father Care,

Little reck'd I of thy frown;

Half thy malice youth could bear,
And the rest a bumper drown.

OH, THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG.

Truth, they say, lies in a well

Why, I vow I ne'er could see,
Let the water-drinkers tell-
There it always lay for me.
For when sparkling wine went round
Never saw I falsehood's mask ;

But still honest truth I found

In the bottom of each flask.

True, at length my vigour's flown,
I have years to bring decay;
Few the locks that now I own,

And the few I have are grey.
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast,
While thy spirits do not tire;
Still beneath thy age's frost,
Glows a spark of youthful fire.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

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