'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 _in_human 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! _
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