Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark.

I leap on board; no helmsman steers: I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the Holy Grail; With folded feet, in stoles of white,

On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,

men,

My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel. The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly.

The horse and rider reel ;

They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 9' And when the tide of combat stands,, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, │ That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favors fall!

4C

Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest
Half-mused, or reeling ripe,

The pint you brought me was the best

That ever came from pipe.
But tho' the port surpasses praise.
My nerves have dealt with stiffer.
Is there some magic in the place?
Or do my peptics differ?

For since I came to live and learn,
No pint of white or red

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,
With many kinsmen gay,

Where long and largely we carouse
As who shall say me nay?
Each month, a birthday coming on,
We drink, defying trouble,
Or sometimes two would meet in one
And then we drank it double ;

Whether the vintage, yet unkept,
Had relish fiery-new,

stow'd when classic Canning died,

n musty bins and chambers, d cast upon its crusty side The gloom of ten Decembers.

e Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! She answer'd to my call;

e changes with that mood or this, Is all-in-all to all;

e lit the spark within my throat, To make my blood run quicker, ed all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor.

nd hence this halo lives about The waiter's hands, that reach each his perfect pint of stout, His proper chop to each.

110

He looks not like the common breed
That with the napkin dally;
I think he came, like Ganymede,
From some delightful valley.

The Cock was of a larger egg
Than modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,

And cramm'd a plumper crop,
Upon an ampler dunghill trod,

Crow'd lustier late and early, Sipt wine from silver, praising God, And raked in golden barley.

boy

120

130

A private life was all his joy,
Till in a court he saw
A something-pottle-bodied
That knuckled at the taw.
He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and

good,

Flew over roof and casement:

I ranged too high: what draws me down

Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown
Which I shall have to pay?
For, something duller than at first,
Nor wholly comfortable,
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 fulness 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,
Till they be gather'd up;

The truth, that flies the flowing can,
Will haunt the vacant cup;

And others' follies teach us not,

160

170

Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.

Ah, let the rusty theme alone!

We know not what we know.

But for my pleasant hour, 't is gone 'Tis gone, and let it go.

'Tis gone a thousand such hat slipt

Away from my embraces,
And fallen into the dusty crypt

Of darken'd forms and faces.

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters we
Long since, and came no more;
With peals of genial clamor sent
From many a tavern-door,
With twisted quirks and happ
hits,

From misty men of letters;
The tavern-hours of mighty wits,
Thine elders and thy betters;

Hours when the Poet's words an looks

Had yet their native glow, Nor vet the fear of little books Had made him talk for show: But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd He flash'd his random speeches, Ere days that deal in ana swarm'd His literary leeches.