To where, O child, born of love's mightier breath,
An icy hand leads thee away to death.
VOICE FROM THE BANQUET
Pour! and keep on pouring,
The vintage which the ancient Rhine doth yield,
Crowned with her hundred castles!
Let it foam and bubble
Forth to our sight, and then deep in the breast
Tell what rare treasure hath the sun matured
Within the hills which well may England crave,