MY epic verse, my pet production, which I deemed
Sufficient to advance me to the highest peak
Of difficult Parnassus, goal of which I've dreamed
For many a weary year, came back to me last week.
The Editor I cursed, that he should stand between
My dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self;
Whose unappreciation forced to blush unseen
My one dear book, to gather dust upon my shelf.
That night in sleep an Angel fair came to my side,
And in her hand she held a scroll; in lines of flame
The name of him I'd cursed was writ; and when I cried,
"What portent this?" the rare celestial dame
Replied:
"Read here, O Ingrate base, the name of him thou'st cursed.
The very man of all men who should be the first
Thy love and lasting gratitude to know, since he
Still leaves the path Parnassian open unto thee—
A path which thou with halting rhyme, most ill composed,
Against thyself hast sought to keep forever closed.
Read thou thy lines again!"
Ah! bitter was the cup.
I read, withdrew the curse—and tore the epic up.