Live long, ere from thy topmost head Long, ere the hateful crow shall tread Live long, nor feel in head or chest Till mellow Death, like some late guest, But when he calls, and thou shalt cease And, laying down an unctuous lease No carved cross-bones, the types of Death, But carved cross-pipes, and, underneath, A pint-pot, neatly graven. You might have won the Poet's name, If such be worth the winning now, brow And gain'd a laurel for your But you have made the wiser choice, A life that moves to gracious ends Thro' troops of unrecording friends, A deedful life, a silent voice: And you have miss'd the irreverent doom Of those that wear the Poet's crown: Hereafter, neither knave nor clown Shall hold their orgies at your tomb. For now the Poet cannot die Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry: "Proclaim the faults he would not show: Ah shameless! for he did but sing A song that pleased us from its worth ; No blazon'd statesman he, nor king. He gave the people of his best : His worst he kept, his best he gave. My Shakespeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest! Who make it seem more sweet to be The little life of bank and brier, The bird that pipes his lone desire And dies unheard within his tree, Than he that warbles long and loud " TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE. ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, And trust me while I turn'd the page, For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd-here and there alone |