|Pour me the wine of liquid flame,
And steep my soul in rubied flow;
Perhaps twill banish cares away,
And tinge with rose this world of woe
Perchance 'twill drown the pangs of life
In Bacchus' horn of nectared fire,
And Fancy find for me a maid
Upon whose bosom I'll expire.
On whirlwind's wing my steed and I
Will cleave the waves of oceans wide.
We'll fly the haunts of mortal man
Where every joy of mine has died.
For death on high is sweeter far
Than life upon the earth below
Which is an urn of buried hopes,
Floating on a sea of woe.