FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN.

LORD BYRON.

FILL the goblet again! for I never before

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink! who would not? since, through life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply,

I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye,

I have loved! who has not? but what heart can declare

That pleasure existed while passion was there?

In the days of my youth-when the heart's in its spring
And dreams that affection can never take wing-

I had friends! who has not? but what tongue will avow,
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,

Friendship shifts with the sunbeam, thou never canst change; Thou grow'st old, who does not? but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

Yet, if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,

We are jealous! who's not? thou hast no such alloy,
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

When the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;

There we find, do we not? in the flow of the soul,
That truth as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left, was she not? but the goblet we kiss,
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own,

We must die! who must not? May our sins be forgiven,
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.

THE BEST OF ALL GOOD COMPANY.

BARRY CORNWALL.

SING! Who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings?

Ah! who is this lady fine?

The Vine, boys, the Vine!
The mother of mighty Wine.
A roamer is she

O'er wall and tree,

And sometimes very good company.

Drink!-Who drinks

To her who blusheth and never thinks?
Ah! who is this maid of thine?

The Grape, boys, the Grape!

O, never let her escape

Until she be turned to Wine!

For better is she

Than Vine can be,

And very, very good company!

Dream!-Who dreams

Of the God that governs a thousand streams?
Ah! who is this Spirit fine?

'Tis Wine, boys, 'tis Wine!
God Bacchus, a friend of mine.
O, better is he

Than Grape or tree,

And the best of all good company.

A SONG AFTER A TOAST.

C. MACKAY.

From "Legends of the Isles," 1845.

IF he, to whom this toast we drink,
Has brought the needy to his door;
Or raised the wretch from ruin's brink
From the abundance of his store;
If he has sooth'd the mourner's woe,
Or help'd young merit into fame,
This night our cups shall overflow
In honour of his name.

If he be poor, and yet has striven

To ease the load of human care; If to the famish'd he has given

One loaf that it was hard to share;

If, in his poverty erect,

He never did a deed of shame, Fill high we'll drain in deep respect A bumper to his name.

But rich or poor, if still his plan

Has been to play an honest part; If he ne'er failed his word to man,

Or broke a trusting woman's heart;
If emulation fire his soul

To snatch the meed of virtuous fame;
Fill high! we'll drain a flowing bowl
In honour of his name.

THE DREAM OF THE REVELLER.

CHARLES MACKAY.

AROUND the board the guests were met,

The lights above them beaming,

And in their cups, replenish'd oft,

The ruddy wine was streaming;

Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes were bright,
Their hearts with pleasure bounded,
The song was sung, the toast was given,
And loud the revel sounded.

I drained a goblet with the rest,
And cried, "Away with sorrow!

Let us be happy for to-day

What care we for the morrow?"
But as I spoke, my sight grew dim,

And slumber deep came o'er me,
And 'mid the whirl of mingling tongues,
This vision passed before me.

Methought I saw a demon rise:

He held a mighty bicker,

Whose burnished sides ran brimming o'er
With floods of burning liquor,
Around him pressed a clamorous crowd,
To taste this liquor greedy,
But chiefly came the poor and sad,
The suffering and the needy;

All those oppress'd by grief or debt,
The dissolute, the lazy,

Blear-eyed old men and reckless youths,
And palsied women crazy;

"Give, give!" they cried, "give, give us drink, To drown all thought of sorrow;

If we are happy for to-day.

We care not for to-morrow!

The first drop warmed their shivering skins, And drove away their sadness;

The second lit their sunken eyes,

And filled their souls with gladness; The third drop made them shout and roar. And play each furious antic;

The fourth drop boiled their very blood;

And the fifth drop drove them frantic:—

"Drink!" said the demon, "drink your fill! Drink of these waters mellow !

They'll make your eye-balls sear and dull,
And turn your white skins yellow;
They'll fill your homes with care and grief,
And clothe your backs with tatters;
They'll fill your hearts with evil thoughts;
But never mind-what matters?

Though virtue sink, and reason fail,
And social ties dissever,

I'll be your friend in hour of need,
And find you homes for ever;
For I have built three mansions high,
Three strong and goodly houses,

To lodge at last each jolly soul,

Who all his life carouses.

The first it is a spacious house,
To all but sots appalling,
Where, by the parish bounty fed,
Vile, in the sunshine crawling,
The worn-out drunkard ends his days,
And eats the dole of others,
A plague and burthen to himself,
An eye-sore to his brothers.

The second is a lazar house,
Rank, fetid, and unholy;
Where, smitten by diseases foul,
And hopeless melancholy,
The victims of potations deep

Pine on a conch of sadness,
Some calling death to end their pain,
And others wrought to madness;

The third and last is black and high,
The abode of guilt and anguish,
And full of dungeons deep and fast,

Where death-doomed felons languish;
So drain the cup and drain again,
One of my goodly houses,
Shall lodge at last each jolly soul
Who to the dregs carouses!"

But well he knew-that demon old-
How vain was all his preaching,
The ragged crew that round him flocked
Were heedless of his teaching;
Even as they heard his fearful words,

They cried, with shouts of laughter,

"Out on the fool who mars to-day
With thoughts of an hereafter!

We care not for thy houses three;
We live but for the present;

And merry will we make it yet

And quaff our bumpers pleasant."

Loud laughed the fiend to hear them speak, And lifting high his bicker,