192
WILL WATERPROOF'S.
Hours, when the Poet's words and looks
Had yet their native glow:
Not yet the fear of little books
Had made him talk for show;
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd,
He flash'd his random speeches;
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd
His literary leeches.
So mix for ever with the past,
Like all good things on earth!
For should I prize thee, could'st 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,
To which I most resort,
I too must part: I hold thee dear
For this good pint of port.
