(A VALEDICTORY INTRODUCTION.)
DIEU to my pens—to my ink—to my paper-
The slaves that enslaved me, to laugh me to
Farewell to the gas-to the oil-to the taper-
That beamed on my vigil from darkness to morn.
Go, hang up my harp, like the mute one of Tara;
No more shall it throb to my lyric or lay;
The pastures of rhyme are for me a Sahara,
No more to be traversed by night or by day.
Oh, Muse! oh, my private particular dear one;
In vain did I single thee forth from the Nine.
Thou never wilt answer-thou never wilt hear one-
I never can hope for ten minutes of thine.
I seek not a gallop, I ask but a canter;
Say, where, oh, ye Muses, can Pegasus be?— While bards by the dozen may mount him instanter, He never stirs out of the stable for me.