EARL OF LYTTON

Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as do

The snake's brood theirs in spring ! and be once more

Wholly renewed, to dwell i' the time that's new, With no reiterance of those pangs of yore.

Peace, peace ! My wild song will go wandering Too wantonly, down paths a private pain Hath trodden bare. What was it jarr'd the strain ?

Some crush'd illusion, left with crumpled wing

Tangled in Music's web of twined strings

That started that false note, and crack'd the tune

In its beginning. Ah, forgotten things

Stumble back strangely ! and the ghost of June

Stands by December's fire, cold, cold ! and puts The last spark out. How could I sing aright With those old airs haunting me all the night

And those old steps that sound when daylight shuts?

For back she comes, and moves reproachfully, The mistress of my moods, and looks berefc

(Cruel to the last!) as tho' 'twere I, not she,

That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and left

Memory comfortless. Away ! away !

Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings, Hopeless regret ! In thinking of these things

Some men have lost their minds, and others may.

Yet, O for one deep- draught in this dull hour !

One deep, deep draught of the departed time ! O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power,

To beat and breathe thro* all the valves of rhyme! Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that art

The cup-bearer of gods, pour deep and long,

Brim all the vacant chalices of song

With health ! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heart

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