BACCHIC HYMN TO THE IMAGE OF DEATH. 47 



Soft, soft, thou gliding oar ; 



Blow soft sweet gale. 

 Chain with bright wreaths the hours, 



Victims if all, 

 Ever, 'mid song and flowers, 



Victims should fall ! 

 Since Life 's so short, we '11 live to laugh ; 



Ah ; wherefore waste a minute ! 

 If youth 's the cup we yet can quaff, 



Be love the pearl within it ! 



Thou art welcome Guest of gloom, 



From the far and fearful sea ! 

 When the last rose sheds its bloom. 



Our board shall be spread with thee ! 



All hail, dark Guest ! 



Who hath so fair a plea 



Our welcome guest to be 



As thou, whose solemn hall 



At last shall feast us all — 



In the dim and dismal coast ? 



Long yet be we the Host ! 



And thou, Dead Shadow, thou, 



All joyless though thy brow, 



Thou — but our passing Guest J 



Happy is yet our doom, 



The earth and the sun are ours, 

 And far from the dreary tomb 



Speed the wings of the rosy Hours — 

 Sweet is for thee the bowl, 



Sweet are thy looks, my love; 

 I fly to thy tender soul. 

 As the bird to its mated dove ! 

 Take me, ah take. 

 Clasped to thy guardian breast. 

 Soft let me sink to rest; 



But wake me — ah wake, 

 And tell me with words and sighs. 

 But more with thy melting eyes. 



That my sun is not set — 

 That the Torch is not quenched at the Urn, 

 That we love, and we breathe and burn. 

 Tell me — thou lov*st me yet I 



