THE POET'S BIRTH:
A MYSTERY.
By the P—t L—te.

I.

I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the dirty town,

At the corner of its lips are oozing a foul ferruginous slime,

Like the toothless tobacco-cramm'd mouth of a hag who enriches the crown

By consuming th 'excised weed,—parent of smuggling crime!

II.

'Tis night; the shivering stars, wrapt in their cloud-blankets dreaming,

Forget to light an old crone, who to cross the hollow would try;

But watchful Aldebaran, in Taurus's head swift gleaming,