Narrowing in to where they sat assembled Swung themselves, and in low tones replied; Till thronging in and in, to where they waited, As 'twere a hundred-throated nightingale, The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated; Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound, Caught the sparkles, and in circles, Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes, Flung the torrent rainbow round: ་ Then they started from their places, Wheeling with precipitate paces To the melody, till they flew, Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces, Twisted hard in fierce embraces, Like to Furies, like to Graces, Dash'd together in blinding dew: Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, Flutter'd headlong from the sky. And then I look'd up toward a mountain-tract, Beyond the darkness and the cataract, And link'd again. I saw within my head A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death, "Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin! Here is custom come your way; Take my brute, and lead him in, Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. "Bitter barmaid, waning fast! See that sheets are on my bed! What! the flower of life is past: "Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, At The Dragon on the heath! Let us have a quiet hour, Let us hob-and-nob with Death. 66 "I am old, but let me drink; Bring me spices, bring me wine; I remember, when I think, That my youth was half divine. "Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, When a blanket wraps the day, When the rotten woodland drips, "Sit thee down, and have no shame, Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee : What care I for any name? What for order or degree? "Let me screw thee up a peg; Let me loose thy tongue with wine : Callest thou that thing a leg? Which is thinnest? thine or mine? "Thou shalt not be saved by works: Thou hast been a sinner too : Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, Empty scarecrows, I and you! "Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every minute dies a man, Every minute one is born. "We are men of ruin'd blood; Therefore comes it we are wise: Fish are we that love the mud, Rising to no fancy-flies. "Name and fame! to fly sublime Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools, Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools. |