Each month, a birth-day coming on, Or sometimes two would meet in one, Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Had relish fiery-new, Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, As old as Waterloo ; Or stow'd (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 answer'd to my call, She changes with that mood or this, Is all-in-all to all: She lit the spark within my throat, Her life into the liquor. And hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout, He looks not like the common breed That with the napkin dally; I think he came, like Ganymede, The Cock was of a larger egg Stept forward on a firmer leg, And cramm'd a plumper crop ; Upon an ampler dunghill trod, A private life was all his joy, Till in a court he saw A something-pottle-bodied boy, That knuckled at the taw: He stoop'd and clutch'd 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, A sign to many a staring shire, Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, With motion less or greater; One fix'd for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go? 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, For, something duller than at first, I sit (my empty glass reversed), Half fearful that, with self at strife, Lest of the fullness 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 So fares it since the years began, 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 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 fall'n into the dusty crypt Of darken'd forms and faces. Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went Long since, and came no more; With peals of genial clamour sent From many a tavern-door, With twisted quirks and happy hits, From misty men of letters; The tavern-hours of mighty wits Thine elders and thy betters. |