COME, send round the wine, and leave points of belief, To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools; This moment's a flower too fair and brief, To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools. Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue, But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl. The fool, that would quarrel for difference of hue, Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul. Shall I ask the brave soldier who fights by my side In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree? Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried, If he kneel not before the same altar with me? From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly, To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss? No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this! |