"The song! the song!" cried others, impatiently. "Composed by himself; mark that, gentlemen," said Mr. Parnassus. "A brother poet! Hear, hear!" The company then drew themselves eagerly round the table, while our artist filled the human goblet to the brim, and after taking a sip from it, stood up, and holding it aloft, sang in a clear rich voice the following words:-- LINES TO A SKULL. Stern relic of a bygone age, What changes hast thou seen ere now? Wert thou a warrior or a sage, And did the laurel deck thy brow? Wert of Imperial Caesar's line, Or poet inspired with art divine? Whate'er thou wert in days of old, Whate'er the deeds they sing of thee, Though ne'er so great and manifold, Thy crown as a cup shall serve for me. Here from they soul's deep-vaulted shrine, Quaff I the blood of thy native vine. And while it braces every nerve, Hail! to Bacchus and Venus, too, The gods that thou wert wont to serve, In days of yore, to me be true, As I lie 'neath the shade of the clustering vine, Merrily quaffing the red, red wine. Wast thy hand steeped in blood Achaean, Whilst fighting for thy purple land, Wert thou patrician or plebeian, Or fell thou by th' assassin's hand, Did'st thou in arms thy foes outshine, Or did thy foe's arm conquer thine? Or in the crowded Colosseum, Did'st fall to glut the beasts of prey? Wert thou reared in the athenaeum, Or were thy haunts among the gay? Now from thy skull on the Palatine, I drink to thee and the muses nine. On the banks of the Tiber's yellow tide, In the mighty days of ancient Rome, Perchance thou ruled'st in all thy pride, O'erlooking thy seven-hilled home. Thus I muse as at noonday I recline, Quaffing the juice of the Roman vine. Now, peace to thy Manes and farewell, This toast to the quiet of thy remains, I quaff from out thy hollow shell, That once was filled with Roman brains. In the land of the cypress and the pine, Some future bard may drink from mine. * * * * *