Томас Мур (Thomas Moore)

From “Irish Melodies”. 52. One Bumper at Parting

          ONE bumper at parting! — though many
                Have circled the board since we met,
          The fullest, the saddest of any
                Remains to be crown’d 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,
                Thy die ’midst the tears of the cup.

          As 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 look’d in sinking,
                The waters beneath him how bright;
          And now, let our farewell of drinking
                Resemble that farewell of light.
          You saw how he finish’d by darting
                His beam o’er a deep billow’s brim —
          So, fill up, let’s shine at our parting,
                In full liquid glory, like him.
          And oh! may our life’s happy measure
                Of moments like this be made up,
          ’Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,
                It dies ’mid the tears of the cup.

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