Cried the author, ‘Read it o’er.’”
“‘Author!’ said I, ‘Imp of Evil—Author great, or Good or Devil,
Whether Putnam sent or Harper toss’d thee here ashore,
Dull and stupid, yet undaunted—on this sheet romantic wasted—
On this floor by volumes haunted—tell me plainly, I implore,
Is there—is there sense in this? tell me, tell me, I implore;
Quoth the author, ‘Read it o’er!’”
“‘Author!” said I, “thing of peril—of paper, ink and ferrel,
By that Public which looks over us—by that Fame we both adore,
Tell this head with furies laden if, within the distant trade-en