"Change, reverting to the years, When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears, And the warmth of hand in hand. "Tell me tales of thy first love April hopes, the fools of chance; Till the graves begin to move, And the dead begin to dance. "Fill the can, and fill the cup : Are but dust that rises up, "Trooping from their mouldy dens The chap-fallen circle spreads: Welcome, fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and empty heads! "You are bones, and what of that? "Death is king, and Vivat Rex! Tread a measure on the stones, Madam if I know your sex, "No, I cannot praise the fire In your eye nor yet your lip : All the more do I admire Joints of cunning workmanship. "Lo! God's likeness the ground-plan Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed : "Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, Hob-and-nob with brother Death! "Thou art mazed, the night is long, "Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, When the locks are crisp and curl'd; Unto me my maudlin gall And my mockeries of the world. "Fill the cup, and fill the can! Mingle madness, mingle scorn! Dregs of life, and lees of man : Yet we will not die forlorn." 5. The voice grew faint: there came a further change: Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range : Below were men and horses pierced with worms, And slowly quickening into lower forms; By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. Then some one spake: "Behold! it was a crime Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time." Another said: "The crime of sense became OME not, when I am dead; COM To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou would'st not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie: Go by, go by. THE EAGLE. FRAGMENT. H E clasps the crag with hooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; OVE eastward, happy earth, and leave Μ Yon orange sunset waning slow : From fringes of the faded eve, O, happy planet, eastward go; Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead THE POET'S SONG. THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, |