Aftword.

‘ Tis done! We reach the final page,

With feelings of relief, I'm certain;

And there arrives at such a stage,

The moment to ring down the curtain.

( This metaphor is freely taken

From Shakespeare — or perhaps from Bacon. )

The Book perused, our Future brings

A plethora of blank to-morrows,

When memories of Happier Things

Will be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows.

( I trust you recognize this line

As being Tennyson's, not mine. )

My verses may indeed be few,

But are they not, to quote the poet,

“The sweetest things that ever grew

Beside a human door”? I know it.

( What an inhuman door would be,

Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me. )

‘ Twas one of my most cherished dreams

To write a Moral Book some day;

What says the Bard? “The best laid schemes

Of Mice and Men gang aft agley!”

( The Bard here mentioned, by the bye,

Is Robbie Burns, of course — not I. )

And tho’ my pen records each thought

As swift as the phonetic Pitman,

Morality is not my “forte,”

O Camarados! ( vide Whitman )

And, like the Porcupine, I still

Am forced to ply a fretful quill.

We may be Master of our Fate,

( As Henley was inspired to mention )

Yet am I but the Second Mate

Upon the ss. “Good Intention”;

For me the course direct is lacking —

I have to do a deal of tacking.

To seek for Morals here's a task

Of which you well may be despairing;

“What has become of them?” you ask,

They've given us the slip — like Waring.

“Look East!” said Browning once, and I

Would make a similar reply.

Look East, where in a garret drear,

The Author works, without cessation,

Composing verses for a mere-

Ly nominal remuneration;

And, while he has the strength to write‘ em,

Will do so still — ad infinitum.