With tales of baffled hopes, or vanished bliss.
No comrade’s voice is here,
That could not tell of grief:—
Fill up!—We know that friendship’s hours,
Like their own joys—are brief.
Drink to their brightness while they yet may last,
And drown in song the memory of the past!
The winter’s leafless bough
In sunshine yet shall bloom;
And hearts that sink in sadness now