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“ 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 bate.

“ 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 haary 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 :
Once more uprose 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 ?”.
To which an answer peal'd from that high land,
But in a tongue no man could understand ;
And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn
God made Himself an awful rosa of dawn.

Come not, when I am dead,

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head,

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;

But thou, go by.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime

I care no longer, being all unblest :
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,

And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie : :

Go by, go by.

THE EAGLE.

FRAGMENT.

He clasps the crag with hooked hands ;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

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