With twisted quirks and happy hits, Hours, when the Poet's words and looks Not yet the fear of little books So mix for ever with the past, Like all good things on earth! For should I prize thee, could'st thou last, At half thy real worth? I hold it good, good things should pass : With time I will not quarrel: It is but yonder empty glass That makes me maudlin-moral. Head-waiter of the chop-house here, To which I most resort, I too must part: I hold thee dear For this, thou shalt from all things suck And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after. But thou wilt never move from hence, Thy latter days increased with pence We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, Live long, ere from thy topmost head Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread Live long, nor feel in head or chest Till mellow Death, like some late guest, Shall call thee from the boxes. But when he calls, and thou shalt cease And, laying down an unctuous lease Of life, shalt earn no more; No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, Shall show thee past to Heaven: But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, A pint-pot, neatly graven. ΤΟ AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. "Cursed be he that moves my bones." γου Shakespeare's Epitaph. might have won the Poet's name, But you have made the wiser choice, And you have miss'd the irreverent doom For now the Poet cannot die Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry: "Proclaim the faults he would not show: Ah shameless! for he did but sing He gave the people of his best : His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest! Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier, The bird that pipes his lone desire And dies unheard within his tree, Than he that warbles long and loud TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. 273 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. LLYRIAN woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, And trust me while I turn'd the page, For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd — here and there alone A glimmering shoulder under gloom From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks, * |