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,
And follow'd with acclaims,

A sign to many a staring shire,

Came crowing over Thames.

Right down by smoky Paul's they bore,

With motion less or greater;

One fix'd for ever 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

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),
And thrumming on the table;

Half fearful that, with self at strife,
I take myself to task;

Lest of the fullness 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

Is gray before I know it.

So fares it since the years began,
Till they be gather'd 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, 'tis gone,

'Tis gone, and let it 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 Long since, and came no more;

With peals of genial clamour 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-warm'd,
He flash'd his random speeches;

Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd
His literary leeches;

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 good pint of port.

For this, thou shalt from all things suck

Marrow of mirth and laughter;

And, whereso'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 polish'd tins,

To serve the hot-and-hot;

To come and go, and come again,

Returning like the pewit,

And watch'd by silent gentlemen,

VOL. II.

That trifle with the cruet.

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