He looks not like the common breed The Cock was of a larger egg A private life was all his joy, That knuckled at the taw: He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement: His brothers of the weather stood Stock still for sheer amazement. But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, A sign to many a staring shire, Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go ? One shade more plump than common; As just and mere a serving-man As any, born of woman. 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), Half fearful that, with self at strife For I had hope, by something rare, But, while I plan and plan, my hair Is So fares it since the years began, The truth, that flies the flowing can, Nor much their wisdom teaches; Ah, let the rusty theme alone! 'Tis gone: a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dusty crypt Of darken'd forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Thine elders and thy betters. Hours, when the Poet's words and looks But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd He flash'd his random speeches; Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 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, I too must part: I hold thee dear For this, thou shalt from all things suck But thou wilt never move from hence, 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 ; 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, But when he calls, and thou shalt cease And, laying down an unctuous lease No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, ΤΟ 9 AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. "Cursed be he that moves my bones." You might have won the Poet's name, But you have made the wiser choice, A life that moves to gracious ends Thro' troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice: And you have miss'd the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet's crown: Hereafter, neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. 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: Break lock and seal: betray the trust: Ah shameless! for he did but sing He gave the people of his best: His worst he kept, his best he gave. Who make it seem more sweet to be Than he that warbles long and loud And drops at Glory's temple-gates, .TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, And trust me while I turn'd the page, |