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Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear, "When our voices commingling breath'd, like one, on the ear; And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison
rolls, I think, oh my love! 't is thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls, * Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear. |
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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 erown'd 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. |
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* " There are countries," says Montaigne, " where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo." |
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