Fill again the mantling bowl Nor fear to meet the morning breaking! None but slaves should bend the soul Beneath the chains of mortal making: Fill your beakers to the brim, Bacchus soon shall lull your sorrow; Let delight But crown the night, And care may bring her clouds to-morrow. Mark this cup of rosy wine With virgin pureness deeply blushing; Beauty pressed it from the vine While Love stood by to charm its gushing; He who dares to drain it now Shall drink such bliss as seldom gladdens; The Moslem’s dream Would joyless seem To him whose brain its rapture maddens. Pleasure sparkles on the brim— Lethe lies far deeper in it— Both, enticing, wait for him Whose heart is warm enough to win it; Hearts like ours, if e’er they chill Soon with love again must lighten. Skies may wear A darksome air Where sunshine most is known to brighten. Then fill, fill high the mantling bowl! Nor fear to meet the morning breaking; Care shall never cloud the soul While Beauty’s beaming eyes are waking. Fill your beakers to the brim, Bacchus soon shall lull your sorrow; Let delight But crown the night, And care may bring her clouds to-morrow. Whatever shall be, hereafter, the position of Mr. Dawes in the poetical world, he will be indebted for it altogether to his shorter compositions, some of which have the merit of tenderness; others of melody and force. What seems to be the popular opinion in respect to his more voluminous effusions, has been brought about, in some measure, by a certain general _tact_, nearly amounting to taste, and more nearly the converse of talent. This tact has been especially displayed in the choice of not inelegant titles and other externals; in a peculiar imitative speciousness of manner, pervading the surface of his writings; and (here we have the anomaly of a positive benefit deduced from a radical defect) in an absolute deficiency in basis, in _stamen_, in matter, or pungency, which, if even slightly evinced, might have invited the reader to an intimate and understanding perusal, whose result would have been disgust. His poems have not been condemned, only because they have never been read. The glitter upon the surface has sufficed, with the newspaper critic, to justify his hyperboles of praise. Very few persons, we feel assured, have had sufficient nerve to wade _through_ the entire volume now in question, except, as in our own case, with the single object of criticism in view. Mr. Dawes has, also, been aided to a poetical reputation by the amiability of his character as a man. How efficient such causes have before been in producing such effects, is a point but too thoroughly understood.