Rubbed off their gloss, until they seemed to me,
All, as he said, varnished hypocrisies.

* * * * *

Most wise for one so young! and strangely read
In books of quaint philosophy--although
His mind's strange alchemy could find some
Rich thought hidden in the basest thing,
Which he transmuted into golden words,
So that in hearing him I often thought
Upon the story of that Saint whose mouth
Was radiant with the angel's blessed touch,
Which gave him superhuman eloquence;
And though he was thus gifted, yet--ah me!

* * * * *

Still earnest with my theme, I bade him think
Of Auerbach's cellar, and that wassail night
Whole centuries ago: and then in phrase,
Better than that which cometh to me now
I likened it--the necromancy which
Drew richest vintage from the rugged boards--
Unto the spell wherewith he'd bound himself--
The spell by which he drew from simplest things
Conceptions beautiful, as Faust drew wine
From the rude table; for this friend of mine
Was a true poet, though he seldom wrote:
The wealth which might have royally endowed