Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . ical Jlloiiologue. 175 High over roaring Temple-bar,And set in Heavens third story, I look at all things as they are,But thro a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honourd by the guest Half-mused, or reeling ripe,The pint you brought me, was the best 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 ? For since I came to live and learn. No pint of white or redHad ever half the power to turn This wheel within my bears a seasond brain about, Unsubject t
Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . ical Jlloiiologue. 175 High over roaring Temple-bar,And set in Heavens third story, I look at all things as they are,But thro a kind of glory. Head-waiter, honourd by the guest Half-mused, or reeling ripe,The pint you brought me, was the best 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 ? For since I came to live and learn. No pint of white or redHad ever half the power to turn This wheel within my 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 long and largely we carouse As who shall say me nay :Each month, a birth-day coming on. We drink defying trouble,Or sometimes two would meet in one, And then we drank it double ; 176 Will Waterproofs Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Had relish fiery-new,Or elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, As old as Waterloo ;. where long and largely we carouse. Or stowd, when classic Canning musty bins and chambers, Had cast upon its crusty sideThe gloom of ten Decembers. Lyrical Monologue. i77 The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is ! She answerd to my changes with that mood or this, In all-in-all to all:She lit the spark within nij throat, To make my blood run quicker,Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives about The waiters hands, that reachTo each his perfect pint of stout. His proper chop to looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally ;I think he came like Ganymede, From some delightful valley. The Cock was of a larger egg Than modem poultry drop,Stept forward on a firmer leg, And crammd a plumper crop ;Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crowd lustier late and early,Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley. A private life was all his joy. Till in a court he sawA someth
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