Wouldst thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst

From 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 that bowl,

Remains of last night's pleasure,

With which the Sparks of Soul

Mixed their burning treasure.

Hence the goblet's shower

Hath such spells to win us;

Hence its mighty power

O'er the flame within us.

Fill the bumper fair!

Every drop we sprinkle

O'er the brow of Care

Smooths away a wrinkle.

Thomas Moore [1779–1852]

"WREATHE THE BOWL"

WREATHE 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, wreathe 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;

Then bring Wit's beam

To warm the stream,

And there's your nectar splendidi

So wreathe 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!

Say, why did Time

His glass sublime

Fill up with sands unsightly,

When wine, he knew,

Runs brisker through,

And sparkles far more brightly?

Oh, lend it us,

And, smiling thus,

SAINT PERAY

WHEN to any saint I pray,
It shall be to Saint Peray.
He alone, of all the brood,
Ever did me any good:
Many I have tried that are
Humbugs in the calendar.

On the Atlantic, faint and sick,
Once I prayed Saint Dominick:
He was holy, sure, and wise;-
Was 't not he that did devise
Auto da Fès and rosaries?-
But for one in my condition
This good saint was no physician.

Next, in pleasant Normandie,
I made a prayer to Saint Denis,
In the great cathedral, where

All the ancient kings repose;
But, how I was swindled there

At the "Golden Fleece," he knows!

In my wanderings, vague and various,
Reaching Naples as I lay

Watching Vesuvius from the bay,
I besought Saint Januarius.
But I was a fool to try him;

Naught I said could liquefy him;
And I swear he did me wrong,

Keeping me shut up so long

In that pest-house, with obscene

Jews and Greeks and things unclean-
What need had I of quarantine?

In Sicily at least a score,—
In Spain about as many more,-
And in Rome almost as many
As the loves of Don Giovanni,
Did I pray to-sans reply;
Devil take the tribe!-said I.

Worn with travel, tired and lame,
To Assisi's walls I came:

Sad and full of homesick fancies,
I addressed me to Saint Francis:
But the beggar never did
Anything as he was bid,

Never gave me aught-but fleas,—
Plenty had I at Assise.

But in Provence, near Vaucluse,

Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint

Gifted with a wondrous juice,

Potent for the worst complaint.

'Twas at Avignon that first-
In the witching time of thirst-
To my brain the knowledge came
Of this blessed Catholic's name;
Forty miles of dust that day
Made me welcome Saint Peray.
Though till then I had not heard
Aught about him, ere a third
Of a litre passed my lips,
All saints else were in eclipse.
For his gentle spirit glided

With such magic into mine,
That methought such bliss as I did
Poet never drew from wine.

Rest he gave me and refection,-
Chastened hopes, calm retrospection,-

Softened images of sorrow,

Bright forebodings for the morrow,

Charity for what is past,

Faith in something good at last.

Now, why should any

almanack

The name of this good creature lack?
Or wherefore should the breviary
Omit a saint so sage and merry?
The Pope himself should grant a day
Especially to Saint Peray.

But, since no day hath been appointed,
On purpose, by the Lord's anointed,
Let us not wait-we'll do him right;

Send round your bottles, Hal-and set your night. Thomas William Parsons [1819-1892]

SPARKLING AND BRIGHT

SPARKLING and bright in liquid light,
Does the wine our goblets gleam in;
With hue as red as the rosy bed.
Which a bee would choose to dream in.
Then fill to-night, with hearts as light,
To loves as gay and fleeting

As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.

Oh! if Mirth might arrest the flight

Of Time through Life's dominions,

We here a while would now beguile
The graybeard of his pinions,

To drink to-night, with hearts as light,
To loves as gay and fleeting

As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim,
And break on the lips while meeting.