Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/233

 "No, I love not what is new; She is of an ancient house: And I think we know the hue Of that cap upon her brows.

"Let her go! her thirst she slakes Where the bloody conduit runs: Then her sweetest meal she makes On the first-born of her sons.

"Drink to lofty hopes that cool— Visions of a perfect State: Drink we, last, the public fool, Frantic love and frantic hate.

"Chant me now some wicked stave, Till thy drooping courage rise, And the glow-worm of the grave Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes.