'Change, reverting to the years, When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears, And the warmth of hand in hand. 'Tell me tales of thy first loveApril hopes, the fools of chance; Till the graves begin to move, And the dead begin to dance. 'Fill the can, and fill the cup: All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. "Trooping from their mouldy dens The chap-fallen circle spreads: Welcome, fellow-citizens, Hollow hearts and empty heads! 'You are bones, and what of that? Every face, however full, Padded round with flesh and fat, Is but modell'd on a skull. 'Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! Tread a measure on the stones, Madam--if I know your sex, From the fashion of your bones. 'No, I cannot praise the fire In your eye-nor yet your lip : All the more do I admire Joints of cunning workmanship. 'Lo! God's likeness—the ground-planNeither modell'd, glazed, nor framed : Buss me, thou rough sketch of man, Far too naked to be shamed! 'Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, While we keep a little breath! Drink to heavy Ignorance! Hob-and-nob with brother Death! 'Thou art mazed, the night is long, And the longer night is near: What! I am not all as wrong As a bitter jest is dear. "Youthful hopes, by scores, to all, When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; Unto me my maudlin gall And my mockeries of the world. Fill the cup, and fill the can: Mingle madness, mingle scorn! Dregs of life, and lees of man : Yet we will not die forlorn.' V. The voice grew faint: there came a further change : Once more uprose the mystic mountainrange: Below were men and horses pierced with worms, And slowly quickening into lower forms; By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross, Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss. Then some one spake : 'Behold! it was a crime Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time.' Another said: 'The crime of sense became The crime of malice, and is equal blame.' And one : 'He had not wholly quench'd his power; A little grain of conscience made him sour.' At last I heard a voice upon the slope Cry to the summit, 'Is there any hope?' To which an answer peal'd from that high land, But in a tongue no man could understand; And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. AFTER READING A LIFE AND 'Cursed be he that moves my bones.' But you have made the wiser choice, 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. Who will not let his ashes rest! The little life of bank and brier, 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! 139 TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls 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 The silver lily heaved and fell; 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. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, LONG lines of cliff breaking have left a The prettiest little damsel in the port, chasm ; And Philip Ray the miller's only son, And in the chasm are foam and yellow And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats up mill; And high in heaven behind it a gray down drawn ; And built their castles of dissolving sand A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a In this the children play'd at keeping house. Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, year On board a merchantman, and made himself While Annie still was mistress; but at Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a All flooded with the helpless wrath of The narrow street that clamber'd toward tears, Shriek out I hate you, Enoch,' and at this The little wife would weep for company, the mill. Then, on a golden autumn eventide, The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small, Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay'd But when the dawn of rosy childhood (His father lying sick and needing him) An hour behind; but as he climb'd the hill, past, And the new warmth of life's ascending Just where the prone edge of the wood To hoard all savings to the uttermost, began To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair, Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand, face All-kindled by a still and sacred fire, To purchase his own boat, and make a And slipt aside, and like a wounded life home Crept down into the hollows of the wood; For Annie and so prosper'd that at last There, while the rest were loud in merryA luckier or a bolder fisherman, A carefuller in peril, did not breathe coast making, Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart. So these were wed, and merrily rang Taking her bread and theirs and on him the bells, fell, And merrily ran the years, seven happy Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, years, Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom. Seven happy years of health and com- He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, petence, And mutual love and honourable toil; With children; first a daughter. In him woke, To see his children leading evermore Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth, And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd With his first babe's first cry, the noble Save them from this, whatever comes to Not only to the market-cross were known, But in the leafy lanes behind the down, Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, Whose Friday fare was Enoch's ministering. me.' And while he pray'd, the master of that ship Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, Came, for he knew the man and valued him, Reporting of his vessel China-bound, And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go? There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place? And Enoch all at once assented to it, So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No graver than as when some little cloud Then came a change, as all things And isles a light in the offing: yet the human change. Ten miles to northward of the narrow port Open'd a larger haven: thither used Enoch at times to go by land or sea; And once when there, and clambering on a mast In harbour, by mischance he slipt and fell : wife- When he was gone-the children-what to do? Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans; To sell the boat-and yet he loved her well A limb was broken when they lifted him; How many a rough sea had he weather'd And while he lay recovering there, his wife Bore him another son, a sickly one : Another hand crept too across his trade |