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.
DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.
DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,1
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But so oft hast thou echoed the deep sigh of sadness,
That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my Country! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine.
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine:
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy own.
JOYS THAT PASS AWAY.
Joys that pass away like this,
Alas! are purchased dear,
If every beam of bliss
Is follow'd by a tear.
In that rebellious but beautiful song, "When Erin first rose," there is, if I recollect right, the following line:
"The dark chain of silence was thrown o'er the deep."
The Chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of a "celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almbaim, where the attending bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the Chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks."-See also the Ode to Gaul, the son of Morni, in Miss Brooke's Reliques of Irish Poetry.
Fare thee well, oh, fare thee well!
Soon, too soon, thou hast broke the spell.
Oh! I ne'er can love again
The girl, whose faithless art,
Could break so dear a chain,
And with it break my heart.
Once, when truth was in those eyes,
How beautiful they shone,
But, now that lustre flies,
For truth, alas! is gone.
Fare thee well, oh, fare thee well!
How I've loved my hate shall tell.
Oh! how lorn, how lost would prove
Thy wretched victim's fate,
If, when deceived in love,
He could not fly to hate.
THE EAST INDIAN.
COME, May, with all thy flowers,
Thy sweetly-scented thorn,
Thy cooling evening showers,
Thy fragrant breath at morn.
When May-flies haunt the willow,
When May-buds tempt the bee,
Then, o'er the shining billow,
My love will come to me.
From Eastern isles, she wingeth
Through watery wiles her way,
And on her cheek she bringeth
The bright sun's orient ray!
Oh! come and court her hither,
Ye breezes mild and warm,
One winter's gale would wither
So soft, so pure a form.
The fields where she was straying
Are bless'd with endless light;
With zephyrs always playing
Through gardens always bright.
Then now, O May! be sweeter
Than e'er thou'st been before.
Let sighs from roses meet her,
When she comes near our shore.
A FINLAND LOVE SONG.
I SAW the moon rise clear
O'er hills and dales of snow,
Nor told my fleet reindeer
The way I wish'd to go;
But, quick he bounded forth,
For well my reindeer knew,
I've but one path on earth,
That path which leads to you.
The gloom that winter cast,
How soon the heart forgets,
When summer brings at last
Her sun that never sets!
So dawn'd my love for you,
And chasing every pain,
Than summer sun more true,
"Twill never set again.
FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.
FROM life without freedom, oh! who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die?
Hark, hark! 'tis the trumpet, the call of the brave,
The death-song of tyrants, and dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding, oh! fly to her aid,
One arm that defends, is worth hosts that invade.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains,
The dead fear no tyrants; the grave has no chains.
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue and mankind, are heroes indeed!
And oh! even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not at least we shall find her in heaven!
OH, YES! SO WELL, SO TENDERLY.
Он, yes!-so well, so tenderly,
Thou'rt loved, adored by me;
Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,
Are worthless without thee.
Though brimm'd with blisses pure and rare,
Life's cup before me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there,
I'd spurn the draught away.
Without thy smile how joylessly,
All glory's meeds I see!
And even the wreath of victory,
Must owe its bloom to thee.
Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs,
For me have now no charms;
My only world those radiant eyes,
My throne those circling arms.
LOVE THEE, DEAREST, LOVE THEE!
LOVE thee, dearest, love thee!
Yes, by yonder star I swear,
Which, through tears, above
Shines so sadly fair,
Though too oft dim
With tears like him,
Like him my truth will shine;
And love thee, dearest, love thee!
Yes-till death I'm thine.
Leave thee, dearest, leave thee!
No-that star is not more true;
When my vows deceive thee
He will wander too.
A cloud of night
May veil his light,
And death shall darken mine;
But leave thee, dearest, leave thee!
No-till death I'm thine.
OH, YES! WHEN THE BLOOM.
Он, yes! when the bloom of love's boyhood is o'er,
He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay,
And though time may take from him the wings he once
The charms that remain will be bright as before,
And he'll lose but his young trick of flying away.
Then let it console thee, if love should not stay,
That friendship our last happy moments shall crown,
Like the shadows of morning, love lessens away,
While friendship, like those at the closing of day,
Will linger and lengthen as life's sun goes down.
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