Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/984

 Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as do The snake's brood theirs in spring! and be once more Wholly renew'd, 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 twinèd 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 bereft (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