 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
181
A FESTAL SONG.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
In nectar now bedew the lips,
And wake the voice of song,
For clouds will gather, and eclipse
The light of bliss ere long.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The cup our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
In nectar now bedew the lips,
And wake the voice of song,
For clouds will gather, and eclipse
The light of bliss ere long.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The cup our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
The foam-bells on the ruby tide
Are types of passing things,
Reminding us that Joy soon dies—
That gray-beard Time hath wings—
And a few more days will dawn and end,
A few more moons wax old,
Ere friend will darkly follow friend
To homes in church-yard mould.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
Are types of passing things,
Reminding us that Joy soon dies—
That gray-beard Time hath wings—
And a few more days will dawn and end,
A few more moons wax old,
Ere friend will darkly follow friend
To homes in church-yard mould.
Fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
Around this ancient festal board
Glad spirits met of yore,
But their merry strains are hushed in death—
Their laugh will ring no more:
Under the yew trees, mossed and green,
May their quiet graves be found;
But in soul they hover nigh unseen,
While tale and jest go round.
Then fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
Glad spirits met of yore,
But their merry strains are hushed in death—
Their laugh will ring no more:
182
May their quiet graves be found;
But in soul they hover nigh unseen,
While tale and jest go round.
Then fill high, fill high, with good old wine,
The bowl our fathers drained—
Fill high, fill high, though its golden rim
By the mist of age is stained.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |