Till Adolf asks Kraus, so the stranger is hight,
To give an account of the terrible fright
From which he with him had sought refuge that night.
Oh, Mr. Tennyson!
Grant me your benison,
You, who are fed on sack, turtle, and venison!
Pity a rhymer,
Child of a mimer,
Who, of Parnassus, can scarce be called any son!
Help me! inspire me!