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I pledge her silent at the board;
Her gradual fingers steal
Of all I felt and feel.
And phantom hopes assemble;
Begins to move and tremble.
Through many an hour of summer suns,
By many pleasant ways,
The current of my days :
The gas-light wavers dimmer;
My college friendships glimmer.
I grow in worth and wit and sense,
Which vexes public men,
For that which all deny them,
And all the world go by them.
Ah yet, though all the world forsake,
Though fortune clip my wings,
Half-views of men and things.
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood;
There must be stormy weather; But for some true result of good
All parties work together.
Let there be thistles, there are grapes ;
If old things, there are new;
Yet glimpses of the true.
We lack not rhymes and reasons,
We circle with the seasons.
This earth is rich in man and maid;
With fai horizons bound :
Comes out, a perfect round.
And, set in Heaven's third story, I look at all things as they are,
But through a kind of glory.
Head-waiter, honored by the guest
Half-mused or reeling ripe,
That ever came from pipe.
My nerves have dealt with stiffer.
Or do my peptics differ?
For since I came to live and learn,
No pint of white or red
This wheel within my head,
Unsubject to confusion,
Through every convolution.
For I am of a numerous house,
With many kinsmen gay,
As who shall say me nay:
We drink defying trouble,
And then we drank it double ;
Whether the vintage, yet unkept,
Had relish fiery-new;
As old as Waterloo ;
In musty bins and chambers,
The gloom of ten Decembers.
The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is!
She answered to my call,
Is all-in-all to all :
She lit the spark within my throat,
To make my blood run quicker, Used all her fiery will, and smote
Her life into the liquor.
And hence this halo lives about
The waiter's ands, that reach
His proper chop to each.
That with the napkin dally;
From some delightful valley.
The Cock was of a larger egg
Than modern poultry drop, Stept forward on a firmer leg,
And crammed a plumper crop;
Crowed lustier late and early,
And raked in golden barley.
A private life was all his joy,
Till in a court he saw
That knuckled at the taw:
Flew over roof and casement: His brothers of the weather stood
Stock-still for sheer amazement.
But he, by farmstead, thorpe, and spire,
And followed with acclaims,
Came crowing over Thames.
Till, where the street grows straiter, One fixed forever at the door,
And one became head-waiter.
But whither would my fancy go?
How out of place she makes The violet of a legend blow
Among the chops and steaks ! "T is but a steward of the can,
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
Into the common day ?
Which I shall have to pay ?
Nor wholly comfortable,
And thrumming on the table :
Half fearful that, with self at strife,
I take myself to task; Lest of the fulness of
life I leave an empty flask: