Come, fill the bowl,--'twill win a smile
To glad once more your drooping brow,
Nor scorn the spell that can beguile
One thought from all that wrings you now!
For who, in worlds so sad as this,
Would lose e'en momentary bliss?
Come,--touch the harp,--its notes will bring
At least a wreck of happier years,--
The songs our childhood, used to sing,--
Its artless joys,--its simple tears.
How blessed, if weeping could restore
Those bright glad days that come no more!
Then touch the harp! and free and fast
The tears I fain would weep shall flow:
And fill the bowl! the last, the last!
Then back to Life's deceitful show!
And waste no more a single tear
On Life, whose joys are sold so dear!