Like a dog, he hunts in dreams, and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whispered by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow: get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but Nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry. 'Tis a purer life than thine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down: my latest rival brings thee rest. Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do? I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous Mother-Age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men; Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; Oh, sweetest melancholy! Fountain-head and pathless groves, A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley: Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. MOODS. OUT upon it: I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings But the spite on't is, no praise Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she, SIR JOHN SUCKLING. THE SOUL'S ERRAND. Go, Soul, the body's guest, Go tell the Court it glows If Court and Church reply, Give Court and Church the lie. Tell Potentates they live Tell men of high condition, And if they do reply, Tell those that brave it most Tell Zeal it lacks devotion; And wish them not reply, Tell Age it daily wasteth; Tell Wit how much it wrangles Tell Physic of her boldness; Tell Fortune of her blindness; Tell Friendship of unkindness; And if they do reply, |