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IRISH MELODIES. |
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It chanc'd upon that da}-,
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 pilfer'd 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,
Eemains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul
Mix'd 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. |
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