Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/135

 And re-construct each shattered beam That glorified glad youth. These were the days!—hearts then could feel, Eyes weep, and slumbers o'er them steal.

But not so now. The second life That wearied hearts must live, Is woven with that thread of strife— Forget not, nor Forgive! Fires, scorching fires run through our veins, Our corded sinews crack, And molten lead boils in our brains, For marrow to the back. Ha! ha! What's life? Think of the joke, The fiercest fire still ends in smoke.

Fill up the cup! fill up the can! Drink, drink, sweet Flesh and Blood, The health of the grim-bearded man That haunteth solitude;— The wood pours forth its melodies, And stars whirl fast around;