One bumper at parting!—tho' many

  Have circled the board since we met,

The fullest, the saddest of any

  Remains to be crowned by us yet.

The sweetness that pleasure hath in it,

  Is always so slow to come forth,

That seldom, alas, till the minute

  It dies, do we know half its worth.

But come,—may our life's happy measure

  Be all of such moments made up;

They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

  They die midst the tears of the cup.

'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant

  To pause and inhabit awhile

Those few sunny spots, like the present,

  That mid the dull wilderness smile!

But Time, like a pitiless master,

  Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours—

Ah, never doth Time travel faster,

  Than when his way lies among flowers.

But come—may our life's happy measure

  Be all of such moments made up;

They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,

  They die midst the tears of the cup.

We saw how the sun looked in sinking,

  The waters beneath him how bright;

And now, let our farewell of drinking

  Resemble that farewell of light.

You saw how he finished, by darting

  His beam o'er a deep billow's brim—

So, fill up, let's shine at our parting,

  In full liquid glory, like him.

And oh! may our life's happy measure

  Of moments like this be made up,

'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,

  It dies mid the tears of the cup.