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, 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? 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, For, something duller than at first, I sit (my empty glass reversed), Half fearful that, with self at strife, 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, 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, Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd 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, 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, 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. 13 |