Balmy juice of rich Madeira,
How thy amber bubbles shine!
How thy fragrance charms the weary,
Soothing like a song divine!

When thy nectar gayly flushes,
And thy hues the goblet stain,
How the mounting spirit rushes
Lightly through the dancing brain!

Every scene of sadness brightens,
All is robed in vestment fair;
How the cloud of sorrow lightens,
As we sip, and banish care!

Now the patriot bosom throbbing
Swells to deeds of high renown;
And the lover ceases sobbing,
Though beneath his mistress' frown.

Now, his eye with frenzy rolling,
How the poet sweeps his lyre,
While, no hand his fire controlling,
Madness thunders o'er his wire!

Fired by thee, he grasps the lightning,
Hurls it fiercely through the air;
And a wreath of glory bright'ning
Flames around his waving hair.

When my fancy, faintly drooping,
Loses all its fire divine,
Let me, o'er thy fountain stooping,
Quaff the richly mantling wine.


They may tell me, the sages who soberly think,
That water was all that sire Adam would drink;
They may tell of the calm, philosophical brain
In those who from all that is kindling refrain, —
What serene, energetic, and straight-forward thought,
By living as Nature would have us, is bought; —
They may keep their cool reason who like it, — be mine
A fancy that glows in a bumper of wine.

Our life was not made to flow out like a stream
In the low lands of Holland; the soul's brightest beam
Will die without feeding, as lamps without oil,
And something reviving must water the soil.
The dew may enliven the flowers of the spring,
And a sprinkling of rain make the nightingale sing;
But the heart cannot glow, and the eye cannot shine,
Nor the tongue roll, unless in a bumper of wine.

Bright nectar that foamed in the goblet of Jove!
Thou quickener of fancy and kindler of love!
By thee heroes rush without dread to the fight,
And cheer the long watch through a cold, frosty night:
When the orator seeks inspiration from thee,
His words how commanding, expressive, and free!
And ev'n the poor poet seems doubly divine,
When he fills from Castalia a bumper of wine.

Thy ruby-cheeked face is the idol for me;
But the tenderer vessels hold nothing but tea,
And that warm, cloudy spirit so weakens their prattle,
Their nonchalant flippancy flows tittle-tattle:
Though Hyson can call forth such lightness of heart,
Where the voluble tongue plays unshackled by art,
Yet their wit and their fancy are wondrously fine,
When by chance they have sipped a bumper of wine.

Then be mine in the storms and the winter of life,
And fill up the place of friends, children, and wife;
Be thou born on the orange-clad mountains of Spain,
Or nursed in the green, sparkling fields of Champagne,
In sea-girt Madeira, or sunny Tokay,
Or where Italy laughs, all enlivened and gay, —
May my last smile at parting complacently shine,
Like the sun on the waves, in a bumper of wine.
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