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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.

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!

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

own!

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