[1] "There are countries." says Montaigne, "where they believe the souls
of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and
there it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call
Echo."
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 crowned 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.
'Tis onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That mid the dull wilderness smile!
But Time, like a pitiless master,
Cries "Onward!" and spurs the gay hours--
Ah, never doth Time travel faster,
Than when his way lies among flowers.
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.
We saw how the sun looked in sinking,
The waters beneath him how bright;
And now, let our farewell of drinking
Resemble that farewell of light.
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