This earth is rich in man and maid; With fair horizons bound: This whole wide earth of light and shade Head-waiter, honour'd by the guest The pint, you brought me, was the best For since I came to live and learn, Had ever half the power to turn This wheel within my head, Which bears a season'd brain about, Unsubject to confusion, Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out, Thro' every convolution. For I am of a numerous house, Where long and largely we carouse Or sometimes two would meet in one, Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, Or stow'd (when classic Canning died) The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! She changes with that mood or this, Is all-in-all to all: She lit the spark within my throat, And hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach He looks not like the common breed I think he came like Ganymede, The Cock was of a larger egg And cramm'd a plumper crop; A private life was all his joy, 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, And follow'd 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 fix'd for ever at the door, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go? '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 Is it the weight of that half-crown, For, something duller than at first, 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 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 Is gray before I know it. So fares it since the years began, The truth, that flies the flowing can, 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! 'Tis gone a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dusty crypt Of darken'd forms and faces. |