Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Hours, when the Poet's words and looks So mix for ever with the past, Like all good things on earth! For should I prize thee, could'st thou last, I hold it good, good things should pass: It is but yonder empty glass That makes me maudlin-moral. Head-waiter of the chop-house here, I too must part: I hold thee dear For this, thou shalt from all things suck And, wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after. But thou wilt never move from hence, Thy latter days increased with pence We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, To serve the hot-and-hot; And watch'd by silent gentlemen, Live long, ere from thy topmost head Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread Live long, nor feel in head or chest Till mellow Death, like some late guest, 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, But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, 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, 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: Ah shameless! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth; 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 |