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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 !
Hob-and-nob with brother Death !
“Thou art mazed, the night is long,
And the longer night is near :
As a bitter jest is dear.
“ Youthful hopes, by scores, to all,
When the locks are crisp and curl'd;
And my mockeries of the world.
“ Fill the cup, and fill the can!
Mingle madness, mingle scorn !
Yet we will not die forlorn."
The voice grew faint: there came a further change :
Another said : “The crime of sense became
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 :
And I desire to rest.
Go by, go by.
He clasps the crag with hooked hands ;
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ;