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* 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 modelled 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-plan
Neither modelled, glazed, or 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 curled;
And my mockeries of the world.
“ Fill the cup, and fill the can!
Mingle madness, mingle scorn!
Yet we will not die forlorn.”
The voice grew faint: there came a further chanyc;
upon Cry to the summit, “ Is there any hope ?” To which an answer pealed from that high land, But in a tongue no man could understand : And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn God made himself an awful rose of dawn.
SURE never yet was Antelope
Could skip so lightly by.
Will hit you in the eye.
How lightly whirls the skipping-rope !
How fairy-like you fly!
I hate that silly sigh.
Or tell me how to die.
And hang yourself thereby.
MOVÉ EASTWARD, HAPPY EARTH, AND
MOVE eastward, happy earth, and leave
Yon orange sunset waning slow;
To glass herself in dewy eyes
Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borné,
Dip forward under starry light,
And round again to happy night.
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
On thy cold gray stones, oh Sea !
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
That he sings in his boat on the bay !
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill ;
And the sound of a voice that is still !
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, oh Sea !
Will never come back to me.
THE POET'S SONG.
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
He passed by the town, and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place,
And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,
And the lark drop down at his feet.
The snake slipt under a spray,
And stared, with his foot on the prey,
songs, But never a one so gay, For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away.”
THE PRINCESS; A MEDLEY.
SIR WALTER VIVIAn all a summer's day
The neighboring borough with their Institute,
And me that morning Walter showed the house, Greek, set with busts : from vases in the hall Flowers of all heavens, and lovelier than their
names, - Grew side by side ; and on the pavement lay Carved stones of the Abbey-ruin in the park, Huge Ammonites, and the first bones of Time; And on the tables every clime and age Jumbled together; celts and calumets, Claymore and snowshoe, toys in lava, fans Of sandal, amber, ancient rosaries, Laborious orient ivory sphere in sphere, The cursed Malayan crease, and battle-clubs From the isles of palm : and higher on the walls, Betwixt the monstrous horns of elk and deer, His own forefathers' arms and armor hung.
And “ this,” he said, “ was Hugh's at Agincourt; And that was old Sir Ralph's at Ascalon: A good knight he! we keep a chronicle With all about him,”—which he brought, and I Dived in a hoard of tales that dealt with knights Half-legend, half-historic, counts and kings Who laid about them at their wills and died; And mixt with these, a lady, one that armed Her own fair head, and sallying through the gate, Had beat her foes with slaughter from her walls.
“ O miracle of women," said the book, “O noble heart who, being strait-besieged By this wild king to force her to his wish, Nor bent, nor broke, nor shunned a soldier's death, But now when all was lost or seemed as lostHer stature more than mortal in the burst Of sunrise, her arm lifted, eyes on fire