And now he spoke of Marmion And Lewis Morris; The former he at school had done, Along with Horace.

p. 31His maiden aunts, no longer young, But learned ladies, Had lately sent him Songs Unsung, Epic of Hades,

p. 31

Gycia, and Gwen. He thought them fine; Not like that Browning, Of whom he would not read a line, He told me, frowning.

Talking of Horace—very clever, Beyond a doubt, But what the Satires meant, he never Yet could make out.

I said I relished Satire Nine Of the First Book; But he had skipped to the divine Eliza Cook.

p. 32He took occasion to declare, In tones devoted, How much he loved her old Arm-chair, Which now he quoted.

p. 32

And other poets he reviewed, Some two or three, Till, having touched on Thomas Hood, He turned to me.

‘Have you been stringing any rhymes Of late?’ he said. I could not lie, but several times I shook my head.

The last straw to the earth will bow The o’erloaded camel, And surely I resembled now That ill-used mammal.

p. 33See how a thankless world regards The gifted choir Of minstrels, singers, poets, bards, Who sweep the lyre.

p. 33

This is the recompense we meet In our vocation. We bear the burden and the heat Of inspiration;

The beauties of the earth we sing In glowing numbers, And to the ‘reading public’ bring Post-prandial slumbers;

We save from Mammon’s gross dominion These sordid times . . . And all this, in the world’s opinion, Is ‘stringing rhymes.’

p. 34It is as if a man should say, In accents mild, ‘Have you been stringing beads to-day, My gentle child?’

p. 34

(Yet even children fond of singing Will pay off scores, And I to-day at least am stringing Not beads but bores.)

And now the sands were left behind, The Club-house past. I wondered, Can I hope to find Escape at last,

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