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Poem	Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Wit's electric flame Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when through the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starr'd dominions: So we, Sages, sit, And, 'mid bumpers brightening, From the Heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning. Fill the bumper, etc. Wouldst thou know what first Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst For wine's celestial spirit? It chanced, upon that day, When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us: Fill the bumper etc. 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, The bowl of Bacchus lying! Fill the bumper, etc. Some drops were in that bowl, Remains 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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