THE LOVER

Oh, you men who are not married

Have n't known the joy of living,

On the margin you have tarried,

Never putting out to sea;

All your musing, all your grieving,

Is a childish thing to me.

I have done with idle moping

And have seen my manly duty.

There is no more doubt and groping,

Since I took a woman's hand,

And the loadstar of her beauty

Led me to the promised land.

For her sake my work is pleasure

And I thrive in my devotion,

Though I seek repute and treasure

But to have the gifts to give,

For my love, like River Ocean,

Rounds the world in which I live.

When I feel, in softest slumber,

Her fair head upon my pillow,

I think how the misty Humber

And the Ganges’ holy stream

Send their treasures o'er the billow

To embalm my lady's dream.

Rightly did my father rear me

Close beside the village steeple,

Rightly shall my sons revere me

When they come to take my place,

For I serve my land and people

And maintain my sturdy race.

Fill your glasses up with liquor,

Drink it down while yet it bubbles.

When the heart beats quick and quicker

Love is knocking. Drink with me:

Here is death to all your troubles,

And long life, fair love, to thee!

“Yes, fill your glasses up, I pray you,”

Said I, “and make it bumpers now,

For whatsoever passion sway you

Some noble love we all avow.

“We bear a mark, an inward token,

That parts us from the common herd.

To each of us some muse has spoken

A holy, unforgotten word.

“Our stars, conjoined in youth's first season,

Whether to musing moved or strife.

Obedient to one touch of reason

Together make the round of life.

“Drink to the loves we knitted here,

A bond by distance not undone.

High thoughts outlive the wasted year;

I drink to that which makes us one.”