Introduction.
If I have dared again to wake the lyre
Of him whose hand shall sweep no more the strings—
That great enchanter, at whose funeral pyre
Laughter and Grief stood each with drooping wings
And head dejected (him, whose “Bridge of Sighs”
And “Number One” drew teardrops from the eyes
Of Mirth and Sadness), I trust you’ll have mercy,
And that, kind Reader, you will not ejaculate
“Oh, ah!” or “Pooh!”
“This never will do!”
“Je trouve que ces vers soient bien ennuyeux!”
“Dull, flat, quite a failure!” “Contemptible stuff!”
“What’s the name of the author? I pity the muff!”
And such-like expressions upon my poor versicles,
which even I don’t consider immaculate!
No! like any poor cousin who lives with a rich one
As companion or governess, awful condition!
I think I may say that, “I know my position.”
And since I can’t hope to be first in the race
I must e’en be content to put up with the place
Which Report to the “little boat” says was assigned,
In some nameless aquatics, i. e. “far behind.”