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 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.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

Peace And Glory.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Written On Passing Deadman's Island, In The Gulf Of St. Lawrence,[1] Late In The Evening, September, 1804.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Where Are The Visions.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh, Could We Do With This World Of Ours.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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One Bumper At Parting.

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...

Thomas Moore

Hip, Hip, Hurra!

Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim,
He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him;
Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue,
Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true.
        Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine
Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine;
Here's "the friends of our youth--tho' of some we're bereft,
May the links that are lost but endear what are left!"
        Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Once more fill a bumper--ne'er talk of the hour;
On hearts thus united old Time has no power.
May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night,
They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright.
        Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, ...

Thomas Moore

Wreath The Bowl.

    Wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
    Should Love amid
    The wreaths be hid,
That joy, the enchanter, brings us,
    No danger fear,
    While wine is near,
We'll drown him if he stings us,
    Then, wreath the bowl
    With flowers of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
    We'll take a flight
    Towards heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

    'Twas nectar fed
    Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;
    And man may brew
    His nectar too,
The rich receipt's as follows:
    Take wine like this,
    Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended,
 ...

Thomas Moore

Drink Of This Cup.

Drink of this cup;--you'll find there's a spell in
    Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in,
    Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;
But would you rise above earth, till akin
    To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it;
Send round the cup--for oh there's a spell in
    Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
    Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philter formed with such power
    To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,
    A harvest of gold in the fields it stoo...

Thomas Moore

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXVIII.

Let us drain the nectared bowl,
Let us raise the song of soul
To him, the god who loves so well
The nectared bowl, the choral swell;
The god who taught the sons of earth
To thread the tangled dance of mirth;
Him, who was nurst with infant Love,
And cradled in the Paphian grove;
Him, that the Snowy Queen of Charms
So oft has fondled in her arms.
Oh 'tis from him the transport flows,
Which sweet intoxication knows;
With him, the brow forgets its gloom,
And brilliant graces learn to bloom.

    Behold!--my boys a goblet bear,
Whose sparkling foam lights up the air.
Where are now the tear, the sigh?
To the winds they fly, they fly!
Grasp the bowl; in nectar sinking,
Man of sorrow, drown thy thinking!
Say, can the tears we lend to thought

Thomas Moore

The Fall Of Hebe. A Dithyrambic Ode.

            'Twas on a day
When the immortals at their banquet lay;
            The bowl
    Sparkled with starry dew,
The weeping of those myriad urns of light,
    Within whose orbs, the Almighty Power,
    At nature's dawning hour,
Stored the rich fluid of ethereal soul.
            Around,
Soft odorous clouds, that upward wing their flight
            From eastern isles
(Where they have bathed them in the orient ray,
And with rich fragrance all their bosoms filled).
In circles flew, and, melting as they flew,
A liquid daybreak o'er the board distilled.

            All, all was luxury!
    All must be luxury, where Lyaeus smiles.
        His locks divine
            Were crowned
        With a bright meteor-braid,
Which, lik...

Thomas Moore