For, something duller than at first, I sit (my empty glass reversed), Half fearful that, with self at strife I leave an empty flask : So fares it since the years began, The truth, that flies the flowing can, 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! go. '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 With peals of genial clamor sent Thine elders and thy betters. Hours, when the Poet's words and looks But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd 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, thou shalt from all things suck But thou wilt never move from hence, 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, But when he calls, and thou shalt cease the gritted floor, To pace And, laying down an unctuous lease Of life, shalt earn no more; No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, ΤΟ 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. My Shakspeare'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, 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 The vast Akrokeraunian walls, Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there: 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 LADY CLARE. It was the time when lilies blow, I trow they did not part in scorn: "He does not love me for my birth, In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me." "O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare." |