I never felt the kiss of love, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, I hear a voice, but none are there; The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chants resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail : With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail. Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! My spirit beats her mortal bars, As down dark tides the glory slides, And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne But o'er the dark a glory spreads, A maiden knight-to me is given I muse on joy that will not cease, Whose odors haunt my dreams; And barren commonplaces break I pledge her silent at the board; Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, Thro' many an hour of summer suns, By many pleasant ways, My college friendships glimmer. I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men, Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake, Let there be thistles, there are grapes; Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, We circle with the seasons. This earth is rich in man and maid; With fair horizons bound: Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest My nerves have dealt with stiffer. For since I came to live and learn, Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, For I am of a numerous house, Or sometimes two would meet in one, Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) 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, She lit the spark within my throat, 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; This whole wide earth of light and shade I think he came like Ganymede, 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. 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, A private life was all his joy, A something-pottle-bodied boy, That knuckled at the taw: And most, of sterling worth, is what Ah, let the rusty theme alone! "T is gone a thousand such have slipt He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good, | And fall'n into the dusty crypt Flew over roof and casement: His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement. Of darken'd forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, With peals of genial clamor sent A sign to many a staring shire, Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go? One shade more plump than common; I ranged too high what draws me down Is it the weight of that half-crown, Half fearful that, with self at strife From many a tavern-door, Hours, when the Poet's words and looks Had made him talk for show; 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 : 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 But thou wilt never move from hence, In haunts of hungry sinners, We fret, we fume, would shift our skins, | Ah shameless! for he did but sing 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 But when he calls, and thou shalt cease 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 org es 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: 't is but just The many-headed beast should know." A song that pleased us from its worth; He gave the people of his best : Who will not let his ashes rest! |