His maiden aunts, no longer young,
But learned ladies,
Had lately sent him Songs Unsung,
Epic of Hades,
Gycia, and Gwen. He thought them fine;
Not like that Browning,
Of whom he would not read a line,
He told me, frowning.
Talking of Horace—very clever,
Beyond a doubt,
But what the Satires meant, he never
Yet could make out.
I said I relished Satire Nine
Of the First Book;
But he had skipped to the divine
Eliza Cook.
He took occasion to declare,
In tones devoted,
How much he loved her old Arm-chair,
Which now he quoted.
And other poets he reviewed,
Some two or three,
Till, having touched on Thomas Hood,
He turned to me.
‘Have you been stringing any rhymes
Of late?’ he said.
I could not lie, but several times
I shook my head.
The last straw to the earth will bow
The o’erloaded camel,
And surely I resembled now
That ill-used mammal.
See how a thankless world regards
The gifted choir
Of minstrels, singers, poets, bards,
Who sweep the lyre.
This is the recompense we meet
In our vocation.
We bear the burden and the heat
Of inspiration;