Beneath the bushel of journalship.
And dreamy Frank must be dreaming still,
Lounging through life, if yet alive,
Smoking his vast preposterous fill,
Lounging, smoking, striving to strive.
And I, the fourth in that old queer throng,
Fourth and least, as my soul avows,—
I alone have been counted strong,
I alone have the laurelled brows!
Well, and what has it all been worth?