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Stedman and Hutchinson, comps. A Library of American Literature:
An Anthology in Eleven Volumes. 1891.
Vols. IX–XI: Literature of the Republic, Part IV., 1861–1889

The Revellers

By William Davis Gallagher (1808–1894)

THERE were sounds of mirth and revelry

In an old ancestral hall,

And many a merry laugh rang out,

And many a merry call;

And the glass was freely passed around,

And the red wine freely quaffed;

And many a heart beat high with glee

And the joy of the thrilling draught—

In that broad and huge ancestral hall,

Of the times that were, of old.

A voice arose, as the lights grew dim,

And a glass was flourished high:

“I drink to Life!” said a Reveller bold,

“And I do not fear to die.

I have no fear—I have no fear—

Talk not of the vagrant, Death,

For he’s but a grim old gentleman,

And wars but with his breath.”

A boast well worthy a revel-rout

Of the times that were, of old.

“We drink,” said all, “We drink to Life

And we do not fear to die!”

Just then a rushing sound was heard,

As of quick wings sweeping by;

And soon the old latch was lifted up,

And the door flew open wide,

And a stranger strode within the hall

With an air of martial pride:

In visor and cloak, like a secret knight

Of the times that were, of old.

He spoke: “I join in your revelry,

Bold sons of the Bacchan rite,

And I drink the toast ye have filled to drink,

The pledge of yon dauntless knight:

Fill high—fill higher—we drink to Life,

And we scorn the vagrant, Death,

For he’s but a grim old gentleman,

And wars but with his breath.”

A pledge well worthy a revel-rout

Of the times that were, of old.

“He’s a noble soul, that champion knight,

And he wears a martial brow;

Oh, he’ll pass the gates of Paradise,

To the regions of bliss below!”

The Reveller stood in deep amaze—

Now flashed his fiery eye;

He muttered a curse—then shouted loud,

“Intruder, thou shalt die!”

And his sword leaped out, like a baron’s brave,

Of the times that were, of old.

He struck—and the stranger’s guise fell off,

When a phantom before him stood,

A grinning, and ghastly, and horrible thing,

That curdled his boiling blood.

He stirred not again, till the stranger blew

A blast of his withering breath;

Then the Reveller fell at the Phantom’s feet

And his conqueror was—DEATH!

In that broad and high ancestral hall,

Of the times that were, of old.