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 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 brightening,
From the Heaven of Wit

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poem by Thomas Moore
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To Live Merrily,and To Trust To Good Verses

Now is the time for mirth;
Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
For with [the] flowery earth
The golden pomp is come.

The golden pomp is come;
For now each tree does wear,
Made of her pap and gum,
Rich beads of amber here.

Now reigns the Rose, and now
Th' Arabian dew besmears
My uncontrolled brow,
And my retorted hairs.

Homer, this health to thee!
In sack of such a kind,
That it would make thee see,
Though thou wert ne'er so blind

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poem by Robert Herrick
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The Evening Company

Within the sitting-room, the company
Had been increased in number. Two or three
Young couples had been added: Emma King,
Ella and Mary Mathers--all could sing
Like veritable angels--Lydia Martin, too,
And Nelly Millikan.--What songs they knew!--

_''Ever of Thee--wherever I may be,
Fondly I'm drea-m-ing ever of thee!_''

And with their gracious voices blend the grace
Of Warsaw Barnett's tenor; and the bass
Unfathomed of Wick Chapman--Fancy still
Can _feel_, as well as _hear_ it, thrill on thrill,
Vibrating plainly down the backs of chairs
And through the wall and up the old hall-stairs.--
Indeed young Chapman's voice especially
Attracted _Mr. Hammond_--For, said he,
Waiving the most Elysian sweetness of
The _ladies_' voices--altitudes above

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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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To Live Merrily, And To Trust To Good Verses

Now is the time for mirth,
Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
For with the flow'ry earth
The golden pomp is come.

The golden pomp is come;
For now each tree does wear,
Made of her pap and gum,
Rich beads of amber here.

Now reigns the rose, and now
Th' Arabian dew besmears
My uncontrolled brow
And my retorted hairs.

Homer, this health to thee,
In sack of such a kind
That it would make thee see
Though thou wert ne'er so blind.

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poem by Robert Herrick
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To One demanding why Wine sparkles

So Diamonds sparkle, and thy Mistriss eyes;
When tis not Fire but light in either flyes.
Beauty not thaw'd by lustful flames will show
Like a fair mountain of unmelted snow:
Nor can the tasted vine more danger bring
Then water taken from the chrystall Spring,
Whose end is to refresh and cool that heat
Which unallayd becomes foul vices seat:
Unless thy boyling veins, mad with desire
Of drink, convert the liquor into fire.
For then thou quaff'st down feavers, thy full bowles
Carouse the burning draughts of Portia's coles.
If it do leap and sparkle in the cup,
Twill sink thy cares, and help invention up.
There never yet was Muse or Poet known
Not dipt or drenched in this Helicon.
But Tom! take heed thou use it with such care
As Witches deal with their Familiar.
For if thy vertues circle not confine
And guard thee from the Furies rais'd by wine,

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poem by Henry King
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Feast Of Victory

Priam's castle-walls had sunk,
Troy in dust and ashes lay,
And each Greek, with triumph drunk,
Richly laden with his prey,
Sat upon his ship's high prow,
On the Hellespontic strand,
Starting on his journey now,
Bound for Greece, his own fair land.
Raise the glad exulting shout!
Toward the land that gave them birth
Turn they now the ships about,
As they seek their native earth.

And in rows, all mournfully,
Sat the Trojan women there,--
Beat their breasts in agony,
Pallid, with dishevelled hair.
In the feast of joy so glad
Mingled they the song of woe,
Weeping o'er their fortunes sad,

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poem by Friedrich Schiller
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Eclogue 5: Menalcas Mopsus

MENALCAS
Why, Mopsus, being both together met,
You skilled to breathe upon the slender reeds,
I to sing ditties, do we not sit down
Here where the elm-trees and the hazels blend?

MOPSUS
You are the elder, 'tis for me to bide
Your choice, Menalcas, whether now we seek
Yon shade that quivers to the changeful breeze,
Or the cave's shelter. Look you how the cave
Is with the wild vine's clusters over-laced!

MENALCAS
None but Amyntas on these hills of ours
Can vie with you.

MOPSUS

What if he also strive

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Eclogue V

MENALCAS, MOPSUS

Menalcas.
Why, Mopsus, being both together met,
You skilled to breathe upon the slender reeds,
I to sing ditties, do we not sit down
Here where the elm-trees and the hazels blend?

Mopsus.
You are the elder, 'tis for me to bide
Your choice, Menalcas, whether now we seek
Yon shade that quivers to the changeful breeze,
Or the cave's shelter. Look you how the cave
Is with the wild vine's clusters over-laced!

Menalcas.
None but Amyntas on these hills of ours
Can vie with you.

Mopsus.

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poem by Virgil
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A World of Rolling Dust

Dogs are chewing there own legs down to the bone
As children play within the bloodshed attempting
To keep happy and bright a world of rolling dust.
Open bullet wounds in the Childs side reveal the
Uncaring justice of Ares, the wood nymphs of the
Wild night are praying to Bacchus, calling him to
Fuel the ecstasy of man towards love of his brother
Upon the vine they call, falling upon there knees in prayer
They await him in silence to stem from his
Father’s thigh, Zeus god of the sky is watching as
Ever leaving to men and the Fates their destiny
Yet as he watches he sighs for it seems as though
Man has lost his knowledge divine, he hath separated
The science beyond a need to know each other for
Once in the world all wisdom was as a circle of
Kings who ruled over a kingdom unison
Yet now it seems that each hath created his boundaries
Each resents the other to occupy his land and so
Man hath forgotten the eternity within the palm of his hand,
So man has lost his ability to recognise and understand

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poem by David Lacey
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St. Maleu sequence

Saint Maleu Sequence
I.
Once we were all tourists
seeking on foot,
by horse or boat,
by plane and camera,
some other place -
by book, museum, library,
some other time.
But now “Was it Portugal or Ponsonby? ”
we ask. “Is everything on tape? ”

I too once wandered everywhere,
by foot and thought,
in marriage and in war,
searching for other minds
and freedom from my own.
One thing only I have learned,
kneeling inhuman on and on,
hearing the soft lament

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poem by Rob Dyer
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Fame

HAVE I played fellowship with night, to see
The allied armies break our gates at dawn
And let our general in ? By Bacchus, no !
I have not left my stall, sir, I'm too poor
For lazy prentices to hand my wares,–
Such delicate chains, like amber linked with love !
Such silvered pins, like hate to let love out !–
What know I ? But my Guidarello went
To the fountain of the coppersmiths, when first
The double cypress showed upon the east.
He's home, poor fool, hoarse as a moulting bird
From loud throat-loyalty.
'The banners burn
Still in my soul,' he cries, 'as then in air.
The gray air, the gray houses, and the flowers,
The flowers, my father! Thyme and twisted sweets
From the blue hills I dream of, and thin bells
Of faery folds; pomegranates spun in flame,
Flame of red rose and golden, flame of sound
Blown from hot-throated trumpets, and the flame

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poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Beranger's My Last Song Perhaps (January 1814)

When, to despoil my native France,
With flaming torch and cruel sword
And boisterous drums her foeman comes,
I curse him and his vandal horde!
Yet, what avail accrues to her,
If we assume the garb of woe?
Let's merry be,--in laughter we
May rescue somewhat from the foe!

Ah, many a brave man trembles now.
I (coward!) show no sign of fear;
When Bacchus sends his blessing, friends,
I drown my panic in his cheer.
Come, gather round my humble board,
And let the sparkling wassail flow,--
Chuckling to think, the while you drink,
"This much we rescue from the foe!"

My creditors beset me so
And so environed my abode,

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poem by Eugene Field
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Propertius's Bid For Immortality

Horace: Book III, Ode 3

"Carminis interea nostri redæmus in orbem---"

Let us return, then, for a time,
To our accustomed round of rhyme;
And let my songs' familiar art
Not fail to move my lady's heart.

They say that Orpheus with his lute
Had power to tame the wildest brute;
That "Vatiations on a Theme"
Of his would stay the swiftest stream.

They say that by the minstrel's song
Cithæron's rocks were moved along
To Thebes, where, as you may recall,
They formed themselves to frame a wall.

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poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Fredman's song no. 10

Drink till after twelve or more,
Live it up with madmen !
Earth is but my chamber floor
And the sun my lantern.
Nothing else is worth a pin
If my head but giddy spin,
Giddy spin, giddy spin,
Giddy spin, giddy spin,
Until it's so drowsy
Nothing more can rouse me.

In my grandad's overcoat,
Torn and out at elbows,
Here I stand, on brandy dote,
'Mid the queerest fellows;
Out of pretty goblets bright
Tipple morning noon and night,
Noon and night, noon and night,
Noon and night, noon and night,

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poem by Carl Michael Bellman
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Georgic 2

Thus far the tilth of fields and stars of heaven;
Now will I sing thee, Bacchus, and, with thee,
The forest's young plantations and the fruit
Of slow-maturing olive. Hither haste,
O Father of the wine-press; all things here
Teem with the bounties of thy hand; for thee
With viny autumn laden blooms the field,
And foams the vintage high with brimming vats;
Hither, O Father of the wine-press, come,
And stripped of buskin stain thy bared limbs
In the new must with me.
First, nature's law
For generating trees is manifold;
For some of their own force spontaneous spring,
No hand of man compelling, and possess
The plains and river-windings far and wide,
As pliant osier and the bending broom,
Poplar, and willows in wan companies
With green leaf glimmering gray; and some there be
From chance-dropped seed that rear them, as the tall

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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A Praise of his Lady

GIVE place, you ladies, and begone!
Boast not yourselves at all!
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.

The virtue of her lively looks
Excels the precious stone;
I wish to have none other books
To read or look upon.

In each of her two crystal eyes
Smileth a naked boy;
It would you all in heart suffice
To see that lamp of joy.

I think Nature hath lost the mould
Where she her shape did take;
Or else I doubt if Nature could
So fair a creature make.

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poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Ode VI: To William Hall, Esquire: With The Works Of Chaulieu

I.
Attend to Chaulieu's wanton lyre;
While, fluent as the sky-lark sings
When first the morn allures it's wings,
The epicure his theme pursues:
And tell me if, among the choir
Whose music charms the banks of Seine,
So full, so free, so rich a strain
E'er dictated the warbling Muse?

II.
Yet, Hall, while thy judicious ear
Admires the well-dissembled art
That can such harmony impart
To the lame pace of Gallic rhymes;
While wit from affectation clear,
Bright images, and passions true,
Recall to thy assenting view
The envied bards of nobler times;

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poem by Mark Akenside
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Pipe and Can

I

THE Indian weed withered quite;
Green at morn, cut down at night;
Shows thy decay: all flesh is hay:
   Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high,
Think thou behold'st the vanity
Of worldly stuff, gone with a puff:
   Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

But when the pipe grows foul within,
Think of thy soul defiled with sin,
And that the fire doth it require:
   Thus think, then drink Tobacco.

The ashes, that are left behind,
May serve to put thee still in mind
That unto dust return thou must:

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poem by Anonymous
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Venice

IN domes of dim and ancient gold,
In cloisters, where the lightning plays,
Where gleam the gorgeous saints of old
In aisles of jade and chrysoprase,
In halls that wave like waving water,
Still moves the voice of Ocean's daughter.

Venice ! What siren music then
Stirred on the shoals and shallow sea,
When that small band of wandering men
First in their dreams imagined thee,
And hung thy lyric splendour high
Between the water and the sky!

What Triton strains in other days
Were heard, when, on a sea of flame,
Thy battlefleet swung through the haze,
And homeward in her glory came,
Bearing the beauty of the East
To make Thy happy saint a feast.

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poem by Herbert Asquith
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The Grasse-hopper

To My Noble Friend, Mr Charles Cotton

O thou that swing'st upon the waving ear
Of some well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious tear
Dropped thee from heav'n, where now th' art reared,

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And, when the poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the sun thou welcom'st then,
Sport'st in the gilt plats of his beams,
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

But ah the sickle! -golden ears are cropped;
Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night;
Sharp frosty fingers all your flow'rs have topped,

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poem by Richard Lovelace
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