I could cry when I think of it, friend, if such tears would comport
with my dignity,
That the author of Christabel ever should smart from such vulgar malignity.
(You remember perhaps that was one of the first little things that I
carolled
After finishing Marmion, the Princess, the Song of the Shirt, and
Childe Harold.)
Oh, doubtless it always has been so--Ah, doubtless it always will be--
There are men who would say that myself is a different person from me.
Better the porridge of patience a poor man snuffs in his plate
Than the water of poisonous laurels distilled by the fingers of hate.
'Tis a dark-purple sort of a moonlighted kind of a midnight, I know;
You remember those verses I wrote on Irene, from Edgar A. Poe?
It was Lady Aholibah Levison, daughter of old Lord St. Giles,
Who inspired those delectable strains, and rewarded her bard with her
smiles.
There are tasters who've sipped of Castalia, who don't look on _my_
brew as _the_ brew:
There are fools who can't think why the names of my heroines of title
should always be Hebrew.
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