Bids, to the torment of herself, appear;
Forward to strive unto that passage dire,
Whose narrow mouth seems fenced with hell’s collected fire;
With glad resolve this leap to make, even though
That thing we call our soul should into nothing flow!
Now come thou forth! thou crystal goblet clear,
From out thy worshipful old case,
Where thou hast lain unused this many a year.
In days of yore right gaily didst thou grace
The festive meetings of my grey-beard sires,