Along the banks of Styx the boatman pale.
Where’er they are, once more we pledge them all,
Ere from the thinning ranks we too shall fall.
Lift high the cup, a generous current pour,
Libations to the chosen friends of yore,
Who wander on the dim Plutonian shore.
A mist arises from the wine-stained ground,
And lo, what phantom faces gather round!
Like storm-blown wreaths they flit—e’en so must we
Soon pass like vapors blown across the sea.