AFTWORD

‘ Tis done! We reach the final page With feelings of relief, I'm certain; And there arrives, at such a stage, The moment to ring down the Curtain.

( This metaphor is freely taken From Shakespeare,— or perhaps from Bacon. ) The Book perused, our Future brings A plethora of blank to-morrows,

When memories of Happier Things Will be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows. ( I trust you recognise this line As being Tennyson's, not mine. )

My verses may indeed be few, But are they not, to quote the poet, ‘ The sweetest things that ever grew Beside a human door’? I know it!

( What an inhuman door would be, Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me. ) ‘ Twas one of my most cherished dreams To write a Moral Book some day;—

What says the Bard?‘ The best laid schemes Of Mice and Men gang aft agley!’ ( The Bard here mentioned, by the bye, Is Robbie Burns, of course,— not I. )

And tho’ my pen records each thought As swift as the phonetic Pitman, Morality is not my‘ forte,’ O Camarados! ( vide Whitman ).

And, like the Porcupine, I still Am forced to ply a fretful quill. We may be Masters of our Fate, ( As Henley was inspired to mention ),

Yet am I but the Second Mate Upon the s. s.‘ Good Intention’; For me the course direct is lacking,— I have to do a deal of tacking.

To seek for Morals here's a task Of which you well may be despairing; ‘ What has become of them?’ you ask. They've given me the slip,— like Waring.

‘ Look East!’ said Browning once, and I Would make a similar reply. Look East, where in a garret drear, The Author works, without cessation,

Composing verses for a mere- Ly nominal remuneration; And, while he has the strength to write‘ em, Will do so still — ad infinitum!