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 favored lips of mine: ; Until the charm have power to make New life-blood warn 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.
Through many an hour of summer suns By many pleasant ways, Against its fountain upward runs The current of my days: I kiss the lips I once have kissed; The gas-light wavers dimmer; And softly, through 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, though all the world forsake, Though fortune clip my wings, I will not cramp my heart, nor take Half-views of men and things. Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; There must be stormy weather; But for some true result of good All parties work together.
Let there be 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 through a kind of glory.
Head-waiter, honored by the guest Half-mused, or reeling-ripe,
The pint, you brought me, was the best That ever came from pipe.
But though 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 bears a seasoned brain about, Unsubject to confusion,
Though soaked and saturate, out and out, Through 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 birthday 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 stowed (when classic Canning 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 answered 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 crammed a plumper crop; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, Crowed lustier, late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley.
A private life was all his joy, Till in a court he saw something-pottle-bodied
That knuckled at the taw:
He stooped and clutched him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement: His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement.
But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And followed with acclaims,
A sign to many a staring shire,
Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, Till, where the street grows straiter, One fixed forever at the door,
And one became head-waiter.
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 fulness 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 gathered 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 fallen into the dusty crypt
Of darkened forms and faces.
Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Long since, and came no more: With peals of genial clamor sent From many a tavern-door,
With twisted quirks and happy hits,
From misty men of letters;
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