)
Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudge
Than gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried,
Oh Why? What? How?--a Voice, that one might judge
To be some Irish echo's, faint replied,
Oh fudge, fudge, fudge!
You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;
And, with it, that odious "additional stanza,
Which Aunt _will_ insist I must keep, as conclusion,
And which, you'll _at once_ see, is Mr. Magan's;--a
Most cruel and dark-designed extravaganza,
And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are
To stifle the flights of my genius by banter.
Just so 'twas with Byron's young eagle-eyed strain,
Just so did they taunt him;--but vain, critics, vain
All your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain!
To blot out the splendor of Fancy's young stream,
Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledged beam!!!
Thou perceivest, dear, that, even while these lines I indite,
Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right,
And I'm all over poet, in Criticism's spite!
That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards
Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards--
That _she_ should make light of my works I can't blame;
But that nice, handsome, odious Magan--what a shame!
Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I rate him,
I'm really afraid--after all, I--_must_ hate him,
He is _so_ provoking--naught's safe from his tongue;
He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.
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