We knew by the string that so gracefully curl’d
Round the “proofs to correct,” that our troubles were near,
And we said if there’s peace to be found in the world,
’Tis not in a Magazine-Editor’s sphere!
All the house was at rest, and we heard not a sound,
But the little mouse scratching the wainscotting through;
And enraged at his noise and his toils to confound,
We knock’d down the inkstand, and stamp’d with our shoe!
And here in this lone little room, we exclaimed,
How many a manuscript fair to the eye,