THE LAST BOTTLE.

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toast, of cheer, of laughter, and of shout, wassuch as Plutarch paints of the wisdom of anti-quity, when the figure of a dead man was shownto the convivial souls, and they melodiouslyjoined the chorus—

Behold that breathless corpse ;

You'll be like it when you die:Therefore drink without remorse,And be merry, merrily.

Ai-lun, Ai-lun, Ai-lun,* quo' he !Our only night, no sky light, drink about,quo' we,

Time, they tell us, waits for no man;—

Cira anft St (feejfor no man UXie.

But here we can make Death himself a waiter,while the cup is drained and the jocund catchgoes round. Hark, whose voice among the happyset is that which sings—

While here we meet, a jovial band,No Son of Discord's impious handDare fling the apple, fire the brand,To mar our social joy :

* Literally in the Greek, " Behold that corpse; you will re-semble it after your death: drink now, therefore, and bemerry."—(See Herodotus and Plutarch, on the Egyptian Ma-nerds, passim). The fine chorus of Ai-lun, " He is dwellingwith the night," is, we trust, pathetically rendered.