I pledge her silent at the board; Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans, And that child's heart within the man's Through many an hour of summer suns, I kiss the lips I once have kissed; I grow in worth and wit and sense, Or that eternal want of pence Which vexes public men, Who hold their hands to all, and cry For that which all deny them, Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, And all the world go by them. Ah yet, though all the world forsake, I will not cramp my heart, nor take 178 Let Whig and Tory stir their blood; Let there be thistles, there are grapes; Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme, As on this whirligig of Time We circle with the seasons. This earth is rich in man and maid; This whole wide earth of light and shade Head-waiter, honored by the guest The pint you brought me was the best But though the port surpasses praise, Is there some magic in the place? 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 seasoned brain about, Unsubject to confusion, Though soaked and saturate, out and out, Through every convolution. For I am of a numerous house, Or sometimes two would meet in one, Whether the vintage, yet unkept, Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept, Or stowed (when classic Canning died) The gloom of ten Decembers. The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is! She changes with that mood or this, She lit the spark within my throat, And hence this halo lives about He looks not like the common breed I think he came, like Ganymede, The Cock was of a larger egg And crammed a plumper crop; A private life was all his joy, He stooped and clutched him, fair and good, His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement. But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and spire, A sign to many a staring shire, Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, And one became head-waiter. But whither would my fancy go? One shade more plump than common; As just and mere a serving-man As any, born of woman. I ranged too high: what draws me down Is it the weight of that half-crown I sit (my empty glass reversed), Half fearful that, with self at strife, Lest of the fulness of my life I leave an empty flask: |