Then we looked a little closer at the ogre as he stood
With his great red eyeballs glowing like two torches in a wood,
And his mighty speckled belly and his dreadful clutching claws
And his nose—a horny parrot's beak, his whiskers and his jaws;
Yet he seemed so sympathetic, and we saw two tears descend,
As he murmured, "I'm so ugly, but I've lost my dearest friend!
I tell you most lymphatic'ly, I've yearnings in my soul,"—
And right along his parrot's beak we saw the tear-drops roll;
He's an arrant sentimentalist, we heard a distant sigh,
Won't you weep upon my bosom? said the spider to the fly.
"If you'd dreamed my dreams of beauty, if you'd seen my works of art,
If you'd felt the cruel hunger that is gnawing at my heart,
And the grief that never leaves me and the love I can't forget,
(For I loved with all the letters in the Chinese alphabet!)
Oh, you'd all come in to comfort me: you ought to help the weak;
And I'm full of melting moments; and—I—know—the—thing—you—seek!"
And the haunting echo answered, Well, I'm sure you ought to try;
There's a duty to one's neighbour, said the spider to the fly.
So we walked into his parlour
Though a gleam was in his eye;
And it was the prettiest parlour
That ever we did spy!
But we saw by the uncertain
Misty light, shot through with gleams
Of many a silken curtain
Broidered o'er with dreadful dreams,
That he locked the door behind us! So we stood with bated breath
In a silence deep as death.
There were scarlet gleams and crimson
In the curious foggy grey,
Like the blood-red light that swims on
Old canals at fall of day,
Where the smoke of some great city loops and droops in gorgeous veils
Round the heavy purple barges' tawny sails.
Were those creatures gagged and muffled,
See—there—by that severed head?
Was it but a breeze that ruffled
Those dark curtains, splashed with red,
Ruffled the dark figures on them, made them moan like things in pain?
How we wished that we were safe at home again.
* * * *
"Oh, we want to hear of Peterkin; good sir, you say you know;
Won't you tell us, won't you put us in the way we want to go?"
So we pleaded, for he seemed so very full of sighs and tears
That we couldn't doubt his kindness, and we smothered all our fears;
But he said, "You must be crazy if you come to me for help;
Why should I desire to send you to your horrid little whelp?" And again, the foolish echo made a far-away reply,
Oh, don't come to me for comfort,
Pray don't look to me for comfort,
Heavens! you mustn't be so selfish, said the spider to the fly.
"Still, when the King of Scotland, so to speak, was in a hole,
He was aided by my brother; it's a story to console
The convict of the treadmill and the infant with a sum,
For it teaches you to try again until your kingdom's come!
The monarch dawdled in that hole for centuries of time
Until my own twin-brother rose and showed him how to climb:
He showed him how to swing and sway upon a tiny thread
Across a mighty precipice, and light upon his head
Without a single fracture and without a single pain
If he only did it frequently and tried and tried again:"
And once again the whisper like a moral wandered by,
Perseverance is a virtue, said the spider to the fly.
Then he moaned, "My heart is hungry; but I fear I cannot eat,
(Of course I speak entirely now of spiritual meat!)
For I only fed an hour ago, but if we calmly sat
While I told you all my troubles in a confidential chat
It would give me such an appetite to hear you sympathise,
And I should sleep the better—see, the tears are in my eyes!
Dead yearnings are such dreadful things, let's keep 'em all alive,—
Let's sit and talk awhile, my dears; we'll dine, I think, at five."
And he brought his chair beside us in his most engaging style,
And began to tell his story with a melancholy smile.—