And then I look'd up toward a mountain-tract, Came floating on for many a month and year, But, as in dreams, I could not. grew too late : Mine was broken, When that cold vapour touch'd the palace gate, 66 Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin! Here is custom come your way; "Bitter barmaid, waning fast! bed; See that sheets are on my "Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour, At the Dragon on the heath! Let us have a quiet hour, Let us hob-and-nob with Death. "I am old, but let me drink; Bring me spices, bring me wine; I remember, when I think, That my youth was half divine. "Wine is good for shrivell'd lips, When a blanket wraps the day, When the rotten woodland drips, "Sit thee down, and have no shame, "Let me screw thee up a peg: Let me loose thy tongue with wine : Callest thou that thing a leg? Which is thinnest ? thine or mine? "Thou shalt not be saved by works: Thou hast been a sinner too : Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks, Empty scarecrows, I and you! 66 Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn : "We are men of ruin'd blood; Therefore comes it we are wise. Fish are we that love the mud, Rising to no fancy-flies. "Name and fame! to fly sublime 66 Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools, Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools. Friendship!-to be two in one- Well I know, when I am gone, How she mouths behind my back. "Virtue !-to be good and justEvery heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. "O! we two as well can look Whited thought and cleanly life As the priest, above his book Leering at his neighbour's wife. "Fill the cup, and fill the can : 66 Have a rouse before the morn : Every minute dies a man, Every minute one is born. Drink, and let the parties rave: They are fill'd with idle spleen; Rising, falling, like a wave, For they know not what they mean. "He that roars for liberty Faster binds a tyrant's power; And the tyrant's cruel glee Forces on the freer hour. “Fill the can, and fill the cup : Are but dust that rises up, "Greet her with applausive breath, Freedom, gaily doth she tread ; 66 In her right a civic wreath, No, I love not what is new; She is of an ancient house : And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows. "Let her go! her thirst she slakes Where the bloody conduit runs : Then her sweetest meal she makes On the first-born of her sons. "Drink to lofty hopes that cool- "Chant me now some wicked stave, "Fear not thou to loose thy tongue; 66 Change, reverting to the years, And the warmth of hand in hand. "Tell me tales of thy first love April hopes, the fools of chance; Till the graves begin to move, And the dead begin to dance. |