But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire,

And followed with acclaims,

A sign to many a staring shire,
Came crowing over Thames.

Right down by smoky Paul's they bore,
Till, where the street grows straiter,

One fixed forever at the door,

And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go?
How out of place she makes
The violet of a legend blow

Among the chops and steaks!

'Tis but a steward of the can,

One shade more plump than common; As just and mere a serving-man

I ranged too high what draws me down

Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown,

Which I shall have to pay?
For, something duller than at first,
Nor wholly comfortable,

I sit, (my empty glass reversed,)

And thrumming on the table:

Half fearful that, with self at strife,

I take myself to task:
Lest of the fulness of my life

I leave an empty flask:

For I had hope, by something rare,
To prove myself a poet;

But, while I plan and plan, my hair
gray before I know it.

Is

So fares it since the years began,

Till they be gathered up;

The truth that flies the flowing can,
Will haunt the vacant cup:

And others' follies teach us not,

Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.

Ah! let the rusty theme alone!

We know not what we know.

But for my pleasant hour, 't is gone,

'Tis gone, and let it go.

'Tis gone a thousand such have slipt

Away from my embraces,

And fallen into the dusty crypt

Of darkened forms and faces.

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went
Long since, and came no more:
With peals of genial clamor sent
From many a tavern-door,
With twisted quirks and happy hits,
From misty men of letters;

The tavern-hours of mighty wits-
Thine elders and thy betters.

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks
Had yet their native glow:
Not yet the fear of little books

Had made him talk for show;
But, all his vast heart sherris-warmed,
He flashed his random speeches;
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarmed
His literary leeches.

So mix forever with the past,

Like all good things on earth!

For should I prize thee, couldst 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 good pint of port.

For this, thou shalt from all things such
Marrow of mirth and laughter;
And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck
Shall fling her old shoe after.

But thou wilt never move from hence,
The sphere thy fate allots:
Thy latter days increased with pence
Go down among the pots:
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam

In haunts of hungry sinners,
Old boxes, larded with the steam
Of thirty thousand dinners.

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, Would quarrel with our lot;

Thy care is, under polished tins,

To serve the hot-and-hot;
To come and go, and come again,
Returning like the pewit,

And watched by silent gentlemen,
That trifle with the cruet.

Live long, ere from thy topmost head
The thick-set hazel dies;

Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread

The corners of thine eyes;

Live long, nor feel in head or chest
Our changeful equinoxes,

Till mellow Death, like some late guest,
Shall call thee from the boxes.

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease
To pace the gritted floor,

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