"What? Ever thus, in dismal round, Shall Pain and Mystery profound Pursue me like a sleepless hound,
"With crimson-dashed and eager jaws, Me, still in ignorance of the cause, Unknowing what I broke of laws?"
The whisper to his ear did seem Like echoed flow of silent stream, Or shadow of forgotten dream,
The whisper trembling in the wind: "Her fate with thine was intertwined," So spake it in his inner mind:
[Illustration: "A SCARED DULLARD, GIBBERING LOW"]
"Each orbed on each a baleful star: Each proved the other's blight and bar: Each unto each were best, most far:
"Yea, each to each was worse than foe: Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low, AND SHE, AN AVALANCHE OF WOE!"
[Why is it that Poetry has never yet been subjected to that process of Dilution which has proved so advantageous to her sister-art Music? The Diluter gives us first a few notes of some well-known Air, then a dozen bars of his own, then a few more notes of the Air, and so on alternately: thus saving the listener, if not from all risk of recognising the melody at all, at least from the too-exciting transports which it might produce in a more concentrated form. The process is termed "setting" by Composers, and any one, that has ever experienced the emotion of being unexpectedly set down in a heap of mortar, will recognise the truthfulness of this happy phrase.
For truly, just as the genuine Epicure lingers lovingly over a morsel of supreme Venison--whose every fibre seems to murmur "Excelsior!"--yet swallows, ere returning to the toothsome dainty, great mouthfuls of oatmeal-porridge and winkles: and just as the perfect Connoisseur in Claret permits himself but one delicate sip, and then tosses off a pint or more of boarding-school beer: so also----
I never loved a dear Gazelle-- _Nor anything that cost me much: High prices profit those who sell, But why should I be fond of such?_
To glad me with his soft black eye _My son comes trotting home from school; He's had a fight, but can't tell why-- He always was a little fool!_
But, when he came to know me well, _He kicked me out, her testy Sire: And when I stained my hair, that Belle, Might note the change, and thus admire_
And love me, it was sure to dye _A muddy green or staring blue: Whilst one might trace, with half an eye, The still triumphant carrot through_.