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!
We know not what we know.

But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone,

'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.

Hours, when the Poet's words and looks

Had yet their native glow:

Not yet 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.

So mix for ever with the past,

Like all good things on earth!

For should I prize thee, could'st thou last, At half thy real worth?

I hold it good, good things should pass :

With time I will not quarrel :

It is but yonder empty glass

That makes me maudlin-moral.

Head-waiter of the chop-house here,

To which I most resort,

I too must part: I hold thee dear

For this good pint of port.

For this, thou shalt from all things suck

Marrow of mirth and laughter;

And, whereso'er thou move, good luck

Shall fling her old shoe after.

But thou wilt never move from hence,
The sphere thy fate allots:

Thy latter days increased with pence
Go down among the pots:
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam
In haunts of hungry sinners,

Old boxes, larded with the steam
Of thirty thousand dinners.

We fret, we fume, would shift our skins,
Would quarrel with our lot;

Thy care is, under polish'd tins,

To serve the hot-and-hot ;

To come and go, and come again,

Returning like the pewit,

And watch'd by silent gentlemen,

That trifle with the cruet.

194

WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE.

Live long, ere from thy topmost head

The thick-set hazel dies;

Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread

The corners of thine eyes:

Live long, nor feel in head or chest

Our changeful equinoxes,

Till mellow Death, like some late guest,

Shall call thee from the boxes.

But when he calls, and thou shalt cease
To pace the gritted floor,

And, laying down an unctuous lease
Of life, shalt earn no more;

No carved cross-bones, the types of Death,
Shall show thee past to Heaven;

But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath,

A pint-pot, neatly graven.

LADY CLARE.

LORD RONALD courted Lady Clare,
Itrow they did not part in scorn ;
Lord Ronald, her cousin, courted her,
And they will wed the morrow morn.

"He does not love me for my birth,

Nor for my lands so broad and fair;

He loves me for my own true worth,

And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse,

Said, "Who was this that went from thee?"

"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare,

"To-morrow he weds with me."