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 And follow'd with acclaims, A sign to many a staring shire, Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, 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, I sit (my empty glass reversed), 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 Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread Till mellow Death, like some late guest, But when he calls, and thou shalt cease ΤΟ AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. You might have won the Poet's name, 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: '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! 110 LADY CLARE. It was the time when lilies blow, I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long-betroth'd were they : They two 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. THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. In her ear he whispers gayly, "If my heart by signs can tell, Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well." She replies, in accents fainter, "There is none I love like thee." He is but a landscape-painter, And a village maiden she. He to lips, that fondly falter, Presses his without reproof: Leads her to the village altar, And they leave her father's roof. "I can make no marriage present: Little can I give my wife. Love will make our cottage pleasant, And I love thee more than life." They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand: Summer woods, about them blowing, Made a murmur in the land. From deep thought himself he rouses, Says to her that loves him well, "Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell." So she goes by him attended, Lay betwixt his home and hers; Built for pleasure and for state. All he shows her makes him dearer: Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer, Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly! He shall have a cheerful home; Than all those she saw before: Bows before him at the door. Her sweet face from brow to chin: Pale again as death did prove : But he clasp'd her like a lover, And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirit sank: Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such And the people loved her much. Unto which she was not born. LIKE Souls that balance joy and pain, In crystal vapor everywhere Sometimes the linnet piped his song: Above the teeming ground. She seem'd a part of joyous Spring: Now on some twisted ivy-net, |