We’ll fall ’mid the wine-cup’s sparkles,

As mute as the wine we drink.

Come! Stand to your glasses!—steady!

’Tis this that the respite buys;

One cup to the dead already:

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Who dreads to the dust returning?

Who shrinks from the sable shore,

Where the high and haughty yearning

Of the soul can sting no more?