FILL THE BUMPER FAIR! AIR-Bob and Joan. FILL the bumper fair 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 bright'ning From the Heav'n of Wit Draw down all its lightning! Fill the bumper fair! &c. Wouldst thou know what first 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. Fill the bumper fair! &c. The careless youth, when up To hide the pilfer'd fire in:But, oh, his joy! when round The halls of Heaven spying, Amongst the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying. Fill the bumper fair! &c. Some drops were in the bowl, O'er that flame within us. Fill the bumper fair! &c. THE FAREWELL TO MY HARP. AIR-New Langolee. DEAR Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence' had hung o'er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp! I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! 1 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 Almhaim, 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 Brook's" Reliques of Irish Poetry." The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness, That ev'n 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! |