He 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 modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,
And cramm'd a plumper crop;
Upon an ampler dunghill trod,
Crow'd 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 saw

A something-pottle-bodied boy,
That knuckled at the taw:

He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good,
Flew over roof and casement:

His brothers of the weather stood
Stock-still for sheer amazement.

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire,
And follow'd with acclaims,
A sign to many a staring shire,
Came crowing over Thames.

Right down by smoky Paul's they bore,
Till, where the street grows straiter,
One fix'd for ever at the door,

And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go?
How out of place she makes

The violet of a legend blow

Among the chops and steaks!

'Tis but a steward of the can,

One shade more plump than common;

As just and mere a serving-man

As any, born of woman.

I ranged too high what draws me down
Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown,
Which I shall have to pay?
For, something duller than at first,
Nor wholly comfortable,

I sit (my empty glass reversed),
And thrumming on the table :

Half fearful that, with self at strife

I take myself to task;

Lest of the fullness of my life
I leave an empty flask :

For I had hope, by something rare,
To prove myself a poet;

But, while I plan and plan, my hair
Is gray before I know it.

So fares it since the years began,
Till they be gather'd up;

The truth, that flies the flowing can,
Will haunt the vacant cup:

And others' follies teach us not,

Nor much their wisdom teaches;
And most, of sterling worth, is what
Our own experience preaches.

Ah, let the rusty theme alone!
We know not what we know.
But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone,
'Tis gone, and let it go.

'Tis gone a thousand such have slipt
Away from my embraces,

And fall'n into the dusty crypt

Of darken'd forms and faces.

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went
Long since, and came no more ;
With peals of genial clamour sent
From many a tavern-door,
With twisted quirks and happy hits,
From misty men of letters;

The tavern-hours of mighty wits-
Thine elders and thy betters.

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks
Had yet their native glow:

Not yet the fear of little books

Had made him talk for show;

But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd,
He flash'd his random speeches ;
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd
His literary leeches.

So mix for ever with the past,

Like all good things on earth!

For should I prize thee, could'st 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 port.

For this, thou shalt from all things suck
Marrow of mirth and laughter;

And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck
Shall fling her old shoe after.

But thou wilt never move from hence,
The sphere thy fate allots:

Thy latter days increased with pence
Go down among the pots:
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam
In haunts of hungry sinners,
Old boxes, larded with the steam
Of thirty thousand dinners.

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins,
Would quarrel with our lot;
Thy care is, under polish'd tins,

To serve the hot-and-hot;
To come and go, and come again,
Returning like the pewit,

And watch'd by silent gentlemen,
That trifle with the cruet.

Live 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 equinoxes,

Till 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, shalt earn no more;

No carved cross-bones, the types of Death,
Shall show thee past to Heaven:

But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath,
A pint-pot, neatly graven.

LXXXIV

ΤΟ

AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS

"Cursed be he that moves my bones."

Shakespeare's Epitaph.

You might have won the Poet's name,
If such be worth the winning now,
And gain'd a laurel for your brow
Of sounder leaf than I can claim;

But you have made the wiser choice,
A life that moves to gracious ends
Thro' troops of unrecording friends,
A deedful life, a silent voice:

And you have miss'd the irreverent doom
Of those that wear the Poet's crown:
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown
Shall hold their orgies at your tomb.

For now the Poet cannot die

Nor leave his music as of old,

But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry:

"Proclaim the faults he would not show:
Break lock and seal betray the trust :
Keep nothing sacred: 'tis but just
The many-headed beast should know."

Ah shameless! for he did but sing
A song that pleased us from its worth
No public life was his on earth,
No blazon'd statesman he, nor king.

He gave the people of his best :

His worst he kept, his best he gave.

My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave

Who will not let his ashes rest!

Who make it seem more sweet to be

The little life of bank and brier, The bird that pipes his lone desire And dies unheard within his tree,

Than he that warbles long and loud
And drops at Glory's temple-gates,
For whom the carrion vulture waits
To tear his heart before the crowd!

LXXXV

TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE

ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls
Of water, sheets of summer glass,
The long divine Peneïan pass,
The vast Akrokeraunian walls,

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,
With such a pencil, such a pen,
You shadow forth to distant men,
I read and felt that I was there:

And trust me while I turn'd the page,
And track'd you still on classic ground,
I grew in gladness till I found
My spirits in the golden age.

For me the torrent ever pour'd

And glisten'd-here and there alone
The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown

By fountain-urns ;—and Naiads oar'd

A glimmering shoulder under gloom
Of cavern pillars; on the swell
The silver lily heaved and fell;
And many a slope was rich in bloom

From him that on the mountain lea
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks,
To him who sat upon the rocks,
And fluted to the morning sea.

LXXXVI

LADY CLARE

IT was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.