BACCHANALIAN SONG.

(From the "Noctes" of Blackwood.)

NORTH.—The air, you know, is my own, James. I shall sing it to-night to some beautiful words by my friend Robert Folkestone Williams, written, he tells me, expressly for the Noctes.

Oh! fill the wine-cup high,

The sparkling liquor pour;

For we will care and grief defy,

They ne'er shall plague us more.

And ere the snowy foam

From off the wine departs,

The precious draught shall find a home,

A dwelling in our hearts.

Though bright may be the beams

That woman's eyes display;

They are not like the ruby gleams

That in our goblets play.

For though surpassing bright

Their brilliancy may be,

Age dims the lustre of their light,

But adds more worth to thee.

Give me another draught,

The sparkling, and the strong;

He who would learn the poet craft—

He who would shine in song—

Should pledge the flowing bowl

With warm and generous wine;

'Twas wine that warm'd Anacreon's soul,

And made his songs divine.

And e'en in tragedy,

Who lives that never knew

The honey of the Attic Bee

Was gather'd from thy dew?

He of the tragic muse,

Whose praises bards rehearse:

What power but thine could e'er diffuse

Such sweetness o'er his verse?

Oh! would that I could raise

The magic of that tongue;

The spirit of those deathless lays,

The Swan of Teios sung!

Each song the bard has given,

Its beauty and its worth,

Sounds sweet as if a voice from heaven

Was echoed upon earth.

How mighty—how divine

Thy spirit seemeth when

The rich draught of the purple vine

Dwelt in these godlike men.

It made each glowing page,

Its eloquence and truth,

In the glory of their golden age,

Outshine the fire of youth.

Joy to the lone heart—joy

To the desolate—oppress'd

For wine can every grief destroy

That gathers in the breast.

The sorrows, and the care,

That in our hearts abide,

'Twill chase them from their dwellings there,

To drown them in its tide.

And now the heart grows warm,

With feelings undefined,

Throwing their deep diffusive charm

O'er all the realms of mind.

The loveliness of truth

Flings out its brightest rays,

Clothed in the songs of early youth,

Or joys of other days.

We think of her, the young

The beautiful, the bright;

We hear the music of her tongue,

Breathing its deep delight.

We see again each glance,

Each bright and dazzling beam,

We feel our throbbing hearts still dance,

We live but in a dream.

From darkness, and from woe,

A power like lightning darts;

A glory cometh down to throw

Its shadow o'er our hearts.

And dimm'd by falling tears,

A spirit seems to rise,

That shows the friend of other years

Is mirror'd in our eyes.

But sorrow, grief, and care,

Had dimm'd his setting star;

And we think with tears of those that were,

To smile on those that are.

Yet though the grassy mound

Sits lightly on his head,

We'll pledge, in solemn silence round,

THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD!

The sparkling juice now pour,

With fond and liberal hand;

Oh! raise the laughing rim once more,

Here's to our FATHER LAND!

Up, every soul that hears,

Hurra! with three times three;

And shout aloud, with deafening cheers,

The "ISLAND OF THE FREE."