. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. arth of light andshade Comes out a perfect over roaring Temple-bar, And set in heavens third story, 70I look at all things as they are, But thro a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honord by the guest Half-mused, or reeling ripe,The pint you brought me was thebest That ever came from tho the port surpasses praise, My nerves have dealt with there some magic in the place ? Or do my peptics differ ? 80 For since I came to live and learn, No pint of white or redHad ever half the power to turn This wheel within my hea
. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. arth of light andshade Comes out a perfect over roaring Temple-bar, And set in heavens third story, 70I look at all things as they are, But thro a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honord by the guest Half-mused, or reeling ripe,The pint you brought me was thebest That ever came from tho the port surpasses praise, My nerves have dealt with there some magic in the place ? Or do my peptics differ ? 80 For since I came to live and learn, No pint of white or redHad ever half the power to turn This wheel within my head,Which bears a seasond brain about, Unsubject to confusion,Tho soakd and saturate, out and out, Thro every convolution. For I am of a numerous house, . With many kinsmen gay, 90 Where long and largely we carouse As who shall say me nay ?Each month, a birthday coming on, We drink, defying trouble,Or sometimes two would meet in one, And then we drank it double ; Whether the vintage, yet unkept,Had relish fiery-new, WILL WATERPROOFS LYRICAL MONOLOGUE i39. W (VUII^READV JOH1M . But whither would my fancy go ? How out of place she makesThe violet of a legend blowAmong the chops and steaks Or elbow-deep in sawdust slept,As old as Waterloo, ioo Or, stowd whem classic Canningdied,In musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty side , The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! She answerd to my call;She changes with that mood or this, Is all-in-all to all ;She lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker, 110Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives aboutThe waiters hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout,His proper chop to each. He looks not like the common breedThat with the napkin dally ; I think he came, like Ganymede,From some delightful valley. 120 The Cock was of a larger egg Than modern poultry drop,Stept forward on a firmer leg, And crammd a plumper crop,Upon an am
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