Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . en of letters ; The tavern-hours of mighty wits —Thine elders and thy betters. Hours, when the Poets words and looks Had yet their native glow :Nor yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show ;But, all his vast heart sherris-warmd, He flashd his random days, that deal in ana, swarmd His literary leeches. So mix for ever with the past, I^ike all good things on earth !For should I prize thee, couldst 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
Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . en of letters ; The tavern-hours of mighty wits —Thine elders and thy betters. Hours, when the Poets words and looks Had yet their native glow :Nor yet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show ;But, all his vast heart sherris-warmd, He flashd his random days, that deal in ana, swarmd His literary leeches. So mix for ever with the past, I^ike all good things on earth !For should I prize thee, couldst 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 this, thou shalt from all things suck Marrow of mirth and laughter;And wheresoeer thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after. Lyrical Motiologue. i8i But thou wilt never move from hence,The sphere thy fate allots : Thy latter days increased with penceGo down among the pots:. larded with the steam of thirty thousand dinners. Thou battenest by tne greasy gleam In haunts of hungry sinners,Old boxes, larded with the steam Of thirty thousand dinners, i82 Will Waterproofs Lyrical 3Ionologue. We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, Would quarrel with our lot;Thy care is, under polishd tins, To serve the hot-and-hot;To come and go, and come again. Returning like the watchd by silent gentlemen, That trifle with the cruet. I,ive long, ere from thy topmost head The thick-set hazel dies ;Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread The corners of thine eyes :Live long, nor feel in head or chest Our changeful mellow Death, like some late guest, Shall call thee from the boxes. But when he calls, and thou shalt cease To pace the gritted floor,And, laying down an unctuous lease Of life, shall earn no more ;No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, Shall show thee past to Heaven :But carved cross-pipes, and, unde
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