And star-like mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I go,

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads,
And,ringing, springs from brand and mail;
But o'er the dark a glory spreads,
And gilds the driving hail.
I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.

I muse on you that will not cease,
Pare spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,

Whose odours haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel's hand,

This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on the prize is near."

So

pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-irm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail.

EDWARD GRAY. SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, "And have you lost your heart?" she said, And are you married yet, Edward Gray?" Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: Bitterly weeping 1 turn'd away: Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray. Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will: To-day I sat for an hour and wept,

By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. Shy she was, and I thought her cold;

Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Fill'd I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me. Cruel, cruel the words I said! Cruelly came they back to-day: 'You're too slight and fickle,' I said, "To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' ,,There I put my face in the grassWhisper'd, 'Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did: Speak a little, Ellen Adair!" ,,Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, 'Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; And here the heart of Edward Gray!" Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: But I will love no more, no more,

Till Ellen Adair come back to me. ,,Bitterly wept I over the stone:

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: There lies the body of Ellen Adair! And there the heart of Edward Gray!"

WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE.

MADE AT THE COCK.

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock,
To which I most resort,

How goes the time? "Tis five o'clock.
Go fetch a pint of port:

But let it not be such as that

You set before chance-comers,
But such whose father-grape grew fat
On Lusitanian summers.

No vain libation to the Muse,

But may she still be kind,
And whisper lovely words, and use
Her influence on the mind,
To make me write my random rhymes,
Ere they be half-forgotten;
Nor add and alter, many times,

Till all be ripe and rotten.

I pledge her, and she comes and dips
Her laurel in the wine,
And lays it thrice upon my lips,
These favour'd lips of mine;
Until the charm have power to make
New lifeblood warm the bosom,
And barren commonplaces break
In full and kindly blossom.

I pledge her silent at the board;

Her gradual fingers steal

And touch upon the master-chord
Of all I felt and feel.

Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,
And phantom hopes assemble;
And that child's heart within the man's
Begins to move and tremble.

runs

Thro' many an hour of summer suns,
By many pleasant ways,
Against its fountain upward
The current of my days:
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd;
The gas light wavers dimmer,
And softly, thro' a vinous mist,

My college friendships glimmer.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense,
Unboding critic-pen,

Or that eternal want of pence,
Which vexes public men,
Who hold their hands to all, and cry
For that which all deny them-
Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry,
And all the world go by them.
Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake,
Tho' fortune clip my wings,
I will not cramp my heart, nor take
Half-views men and things.
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood;
There must he stormy weather;
But for some true result of good

All parties work together.

Let there he thistles, there are grapes;
If old things, there are new:
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes,
Yet glimpses of the true.

Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme,
We lack not rhymes and reasons,

As on this whirligig of Time
We circle with the seasons.

This earth is rich in man and maid;
With fair horizons bound:

This whole wide earth of light and shade
Comes out, a perfect round.
High over roaring Temple-bar,
And, set in Heaven's third story,
I look at all things as they are,
But thro' a kind of glory.

Head-waiter, honour'd by the guest Half-mused, or reeling ripe,

The pint, you brought me, was the best
That ever came from pipe.
But tho' the port surpasses praise,

My nerves have dealt with stiffer.
Is there some magic in the place?
Or do my peptics differ?

For since I came to live and learn,

No pint of white or red
Had ever half the power to turn
This wheel within my head,
Which hears a season'd brain about,
Unsubject to confusion,

Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out,
Thro' every convolution.

For I am of a numerous house,
With many kinsmen gay,
Where 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;
Whether the vintage, yet unkept,
Had relish fiery-new,

Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept,
As old as Waterloo;

Or stow'd (when classic Cunning died)
In musty bins and chambers,
Had cast upon its crusty side
The gloom of ten Decembers.
The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is!
She answer'd to my call,

She changes with that mood or this,
Is all-in-all to all:

She lit the spark within my 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 waiter's hands, that reach
To each his perfect pint of stout,
His proper chop to each.

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,

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

Or 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 :
Nor 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, 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 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 eross-pipes, and underneath
A pint-pot neatly graven.

TO

,,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!

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,

1 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.

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.

I trow they did not part in scorn:
Lovers long-betroth'd were they:
They too will wed the morrow morn :
God's blessing on the day!
,,He does not love me for my birth,

Nor for my lands so broad and fair, He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse,