The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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| VII. |
REVELRY. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
170
REVELRY.
Merrily, merrily, drink we all,
Welcome guests at a jovial board!
Eyes may wander—eyelids fall—
Still let the precious wine be poured.
Pour, pour!
Till the goblet tall will hold no more:
And high above its foaming brim,
The miniature icebergs floating clear
Coldly kiss the lips of him
Whose cheeks are purple with good cheer.
The claret jug—a graceful queen,
Whose slender neck a silver vine
Clasps for ever—stands between
Two sister goblets emerald green,
Filled again with perfumed wine!
The precious liquid ebbs and flows;
The graceful vessel comes and goes;
How replenished no one knows,
For no one here a thought bestows
On any mortal thing.
Lower and lower the claret sinks;
Deeper and deeper each good soul drinks,
Till he bows his head, and nods, and winks,
And falls asleep like a king.
Welcome guests at a jovial board!
Eyes may wander—eyelids fall—
Still let the precious wine be poured.
Pour, pour!
Till the goblet tall will hold no more:
And high above its foaming brim,
The miniature icebergs floating clear
Coldly kiss the lips of him
Whose cheeks are purple with good cheer.
The claret jug—a graceful queen,
Whose slender neck a silver vine
Clasps for ever—stands between
Two sister goblets emerald green,
Filled again with perfumed wine!
The precious liquid ebbs and flows;
The graceful vessel comes and goes;
171
For no one here a thought bestows
On any mortal thing.
Lower and lower the claret sinks;
Deeper and deeper each good soul drinks,
Till he bows his head, and nods, and winks,
And falls asleep like a king.
A rich beaufet, whose carvings old
Are half-concealed by its velvet dress,
Occupies a deep recess,
Piled it is with plate of gold.
What with the taper's flooding light,
And the jewelled cups and dishes bright;
And the rich beaufet with carvings quaint
Of many a face that would pass for a saint;
And the sumptuous cloth of crimson deep;
And the liveried servants—half asleep;
And the sombre hue of the ancient oak;
And a pastile fuming its fragrant smoke;
And the light just falling wherever it should,
On silver, and gold, and polished wood;
And the shadows deep that retire behind
Goblin shapes that haunt the mind;
And the pictures that hang on the lofty walls;
And the music that rises at intervals;—
What with all these, it resembles indeed
The gorgeous church of an ancient creed;
And justly—for Bacchus has ruled as long
As any religion, right or wrong;
And by his inspiration the cleverest sages
Have written to edify future ages.
But all the gods are so very precise
In levying tax and sacrifice;
And they charge such a very exorbitant price
For anything pleasant—which they call “vice.”
He lets us drink till the dawn of day—
He lets us drink our lives away;
But at last he comes to claim his prey.
And the “generous” god, whatever they say,
Is a creditor harsh—and the devil to pay!
Are half-concealed by its velvet dress,
Occupies a deep recess,
Piled it is with plate of gold.
What with the taper's flooding light,
And the jewelled cups and dishes bright;
And the rich beaufet with carvings quaint
Of many a face that would pass for a saint;
And the sumptuous cloth of crimson deep;
And the liveried servants—half asleep;
And the sombre hue of the ancient oak;
And a pastile fuming its fragrant smoke;
And the light just falling wherever it should,
On silver, and gold, and polished wood;
And the shadows deep that retire behind
Goblin shapes that haunt the mind;
And the pictures that hang on the lofty walls;
And the music that rises at intervals;—
What with all these, it resembles indeed
The gorgeous church of an ancient creed;
172
As any religion, right or wrong;
And by his inspiration the cleverest sages
Have written to edify future ages.
But all the gods are so very precise
In levying tax and sacrifice;
And they charge such a very exorbitant price
For anything pleasant—which they call “vice.”
He lets us drink till the dawn of day—
He lets us drink our lives away;
But at last he comes to claim his prey.
And the “generous” god, whatever they say,
Is a creditor harsh—and the devil to pay!
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |