Thomas Moore (Томас Мур)

From “Irish Melodies”. 79. Wreath the Bowl

                    WREATH the bowl
                    With flowers of soul,
          The brightest Wit can find us,
                    We’ll take a flight
                    Towards heaven to-night,
          And leave dull earth behind us.
                    Should Love amid
                    The wreaths be hid
          That Joy, the enchanter, brings us,
                    No danger fear,
                    While wine is near —
          We’ll drown him if he stings us.
                    Then, wreath the bowl
                    With flowers of soul,
          The brightest Wit can find us.
                    We’ll take a flight
                    Towards heaven to-night,
          And leave dull earth behind us.

                    ’Twas nectar fed
                    Of old, ’tis said,
          Their Junos, Joves, Apollos,
                    And man may brew
                    His nectar too,
          The rich receipt’s as follows:
                    Take wine like this,
                    Let looks of bliss
          Around it well be blended,
                    Then bring Wit’s beam
                    To warm the stream,
          And there’s your nectar, splendid!
                    So, wreath the bowl,
                    With flowers of soul,
          The brightest Wit can find us,
                    We’ll take a flight
                    Towards heaven to-night,
          And leave dull earth behind us.

                    Say, why did Time
                    His glass sublime
          Fill up with sands unsightly,
                    When wine, he knew,
                    Runs brisker through,
          And sparkles far more brightly?
                    Oh, lend it us,
                    And, smiling thus,
          The glass in two we’ll sever,
                    Make pleasure glide
                    In double tide,
          And fill both ends for ever!
                    Then, wreath the bowl
                    With flowers of soul
          The brightest Wit can find us;
                    We’ll take a flight
                    Towards heaven to-night,
          And leave dull earth behind us.

1. From “Irish Melodies”. 47. What the Bee Is to the Floweret
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 32
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 16
4. From “Irish Melodies”. 3. Erin! The Tear and the Smile in Thine Eyes
5. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 74

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