Jewels, though perchance elusive,
Crowd this casket of a book;
'Tis your privilege exclusive
For these hidden gems to look.
When you have adroitly caught them,
Their delights you can explain
To a public which has sought them
For so long in vain.
Tho' you whelm me with your strictures,
Snubs which one might justly call
(Like the artist's cruel pictures)
The "unkindest cuts of Hall"!
Tho' your sneers be fierce and many,
Honest censure I respect,
And will meekly swallow any-
Thing except neglect.
Tho' your mouth be far from mealy,
Tho' your pen be dipped in gall,
Criticise me frankly, freely,—
Better thus than not at all!
Up the ladder I have crept un-
Til I reached a middle rung,
Do not let me die "unwept, un-
Honoured and unhung."
L'ENVOI
Go, little book, and coyly creep
Beneath the pillows of the blest,
Whence those who seek in vain for sleep
Shall drag thee from thy nest;
That so thy sedative aroma
May lull them to a state of coma.
The infant child who lies awake,
Within its tiny trundle-bed,
No soothing potion needs to take,
If thou art duly read;
And hosts of harassed monthly nurses
Shall bless thy soporific verses.
The invalid who cannot rest
Has but at thy contents to glance
To hug thee to his fevered breast
And fall into a trance;
And sleepless patients without number
Shall hail thee harbinger of slumber.
Go then, fond offspring of the Muse,
Perform thy deadly work by night,
Thou rich man's boon, thou widow's cruse,
Thou orphan-child's delight!
Appease the heirs from all the ages
With balm from thine hypnotic pages!