Aftword

'Tis done! We reach the final pageWith feelings of relief, I'm certain;And there arrives, at such a stage,The moment to ring down the Curtain.(This metaphor is freely takenFrom Shakespeare,--or perhaps from Bacon.)

The Book perused, our Future bringsA plethora of blank to-morrows,When memories of Happier ThingsWill be our Sorrow's Crown of Sorrows.(I trust you recognise this lineAs being Tennyson's, not mine.)

My verses may indeed be few,But are they not, to quote the poet,'The sweetest things that ever grewBeside a human door'? I know it!(What an inhuman door would be,Enquire of Wordsworth, please, not me.)

'Twas one of my most cherished dreamsTo write a Moral Book some day;--What says the Bard? 'The best laid schemesOf 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 thoughtAs swift as the phonetic Pitman,Morality is not my 'forte,'O Camarados! (vide Whitman).And, like the Porcupine, I stillAm forced to ply a fretful quill.

We may be Masters of our Fate,(As Henley was inspired to mention),Yet am I but the Second MateUpon the s.s. 'Good Intention';For me the course direct is lacking,--I have to do a deal of tacking.

To seek for Morals here's a taskOf which you well may be despairing;'What has become of them?' you ask.They've given me the slip,--like Waring.'Look East!' said Browning once, and IWould 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!