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- Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ;

Set thy hoary fancies free: What is loathsome to the young

Savours well to thee and me.

Change, reverting to the years,

When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears,

And the warmth of hand in hand.

“ Tell mé tales of thy first love

April hopes, the fools of chance ; Till the graves begin to move,

And the dead begin to dance.

Fill the can, and fill the cup:

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up,

And is lightly laid again.

“ Trooping from their mouldy dens

The chap-fallen circle spreads : Welcome, fellow-citizens,

Hollow hearts and empty heads!

“ You are bones, and what of that?

Every face, however full,

Padded round with flesh and fat,

Is but modell’d on a skull.

“Death is king, and Vivat Rex!

Tread a measure on the stones,

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No, I cannot praise the fire
In your eye-

nor yet your lip: All the more do I admire

Joints of cunning workmanship.

“Lo! God's likeness — the ground-plan

Neither modell’d, glazed, or framed: Buss me, thou rough sketch of man,

Far too naked to be shamed !

" Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance,

While we keep a little breath! Drink to heavy Ignorance !

Hob-and-nob with brother Death!

" Thou art mazed, the night is long,

And the longer night is near: What! I am not all as wrong

As a bitter jest is dear.

“ Youthful hopes, by scores, to all,

When the locks are crisp and curl'd; Unto me my maudlin gall

And my mockeries of the world.

“ Fill the cup, and fill the can!

Mingle madness, mingle scorn!
Dregs of life, and lees of man:

Yet we will not die forlorn."

The voice grew faint: there came a further change:
Again arose the mystic mountain-range:
Below were men and horses pierced with worms,
And slowly quickening into lower forms;
By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross,
Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss.
Then some one said, “ Behold! it was a crime
Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time.”
Another said : “ The crime of sense became
The crime of malice, and is equal blame."
And one: “He had not wholly quench'd his power;
A little grain of conscience made him sour.”
At last I heard a voice upon the slope,
Cry to the summit, “ Is there any hope ?”

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To which an answer peald from that high land,
But in a tongue no man could understand ;
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn

God made Himself an awful rose of dawn.

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