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FILL THE BUMPER FAIR!
Air-Bob and Joan.
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 bright’ning From the Heav'n of Wit
Draw down all its lightning! Fill the bumper fair! &c.
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. Fill the bumper fair! &c.
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, Amongst the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying. Fill the bumper fair! &c.
Some drops were in the 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 usHence its mighty power
O'er that flame within us. Fill the bumper fair! &c.
THE FAREWELL TO MY HARP.
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
In that rebellious but beautiful song “ When Erin first rose" there is, if I recollect right, the following line:-
“ The dark chain of silencē 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 num
bers, 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 thý glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I waked was thy