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 thro’ 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 starred 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 pilfered 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 the bowl,

Remains of last night's pleasure,

With which the Sparks of Soul

Mixt 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.