WRITTEN IN DEEP DEJECTION.
NCE, in the gardens of delight,
I pluck'd the fairest, fullest rose;
But (while I prest its petals tight
Against the threshold of my nose)
That loathsome centipede, Re-
morse,
Invaded with a stealthy tread
My nasal organ, and of course
Soon reached the middle of my
head.
That hideous tenant crawls and creeps
About the chambers of my brain,
He never pauses—never sleeps—
Nor thinks of coming out again.
The movements of his hundred feet
Are gentler than the autumn breeze;
But I dislike to feel him eat
My cerebellum by degrees.
With snuff, tobacco, Preston salts,
And various other potent smells,
I strive to fumigate the vaults
In which the devastator dwells.
I pull my hair out by the root—
I dash my head against the door—
It only makes the hateful brute
A trifle noisier than before.
Then tell me not that Joy's bright flow'r
Upon this canker'd heart may bloom,
Like toadstools on a time-worn tow'r,
Or dandelions on a tomb.
I mourn departed Hope in vain,
For briny tears may naught avail;
You cannot catch that bird again
By dropping salt upon its tail!