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 thro' 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 starred dominions:—

So we, Sages, sit,

  And, mid bumpers brightening,

From the Heaven of Wit

  Draw down all its lightning.

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:

The careless Youth, when up

  To Glory's fount aspiring,

Took nor urn nor cup

  To hide the pilfered fire in.—

But oh his joy, when, round

  The halls of Heaven spying,

Among the stars he found

  A bowl of Bacchus lying!

Some drops were in the bowl,

  Remains of last night's pleasure,

With which the Sparks of Soul

  Mixt their burning treasure.

Hence the goblet's shower

  Hath such spells to win us;

Hence its mighty power

  O'er that flame within us.

Fill the bumper fair!

  Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

  Smooths away a wrinkle.