Thomas Moore (Томас Мур)

From “Irish Melodies”. 72. Fill the Bumper Fair

          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.

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 16
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 75
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 27
4. From “Irish Melodies”. 114. I’ve a Secret to Tell Thee
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 17

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