‘ 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 recognize 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 Master of our Fate, ( As Henley was inspired to mention )
Yet am I but the Second Mate Upon the ss. “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 us 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.
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