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.