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For I had hope, by something rare,
But, while I plan and plan, my hair
So fares it since the years began,
The truth, that flies the flowing can,
Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.
Ah, let the rusty theme alone!
But for my pleasant hour, 't is gone, 'T is gone, and let it go.
'T is gone: a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces,
And fallen into the dusty crypt
Of darkened forms and faces.
Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went
From misty men of letters;
Thine elders and thy betters.
Hours, when the poet's words and looks
Had yet their native glow:
Had made him talk for show;
So mix forever with the past,
Like all good things on earth!
For should I prize thee, couldst 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,
I too must part: I hold thee dear
For this, thou shalt from all things suck
But thou wilt never move from hence,
Thy latter days increased with pence
Thou battenest by the greasy gleam
We fret, we fume, would shift our skins,
To serve the hot-and-hot;
To come and go, and come again,
Live long, ere from thy topmost head
Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread
Live long, nor feel in head or chest
Our changeful equinoxes,
Till mellow Death, like some late guest,
But when he calls, and thou shalt cease
And, laying down an unctuous lease
No carvéd cross-bones, the types of Death,
But carvéd cross-pipes, and, underneath,
A pint-pot, neatly graven.
METHOUGHT that I had broken from the Tower
And was embarked to cross to Burgundy;
And in my company, my brother Gloster:
Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England.
Methought that Gloster stumbled; and, in falling,
O Heaven! methought what pain it was to drown!
All scattered in the bottom of the sea.
Some lay in dead men's skulls; and in those holes
And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered by.
I passed, methought, the melancholy flood,
The first that there did greet my stranger soul
Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud,
Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, – That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury;
Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments!"
THE MURDER OF THE YOUNG PRINCES.
HE tyrannous and bloody act is done;
The most arch deed of piteous massacre