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“ No, I love not what is new ;

She is of an ancient house :
And I think we know the hue

Of that cap upon her brows.

“Let her go! her thirst she slakes

Where the bloody conduit runs : Then her sweetest meal she makes

On the first-born of her sons.

“ Drink to lofty hopes that cool —

Visions of a perfect State : Drink we, last, the public fool,

Frantic love and frantic hate.

“ Chant me now some wicked stave,

Till thy drooping courage rise, And the glow-worm of the grave Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes.

“ Fear not thou to loose thy tongue ;

Set thy hoary fancies free ; What is loathsome to the young

Savours well to thee and me.

“ 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 love

April 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-plan

Neither modell d, 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 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.”

The voice grew faint : there came a further change;
Again arose the mystic mountain-range :
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 ?”

VOL. 11.

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