Here is another little bit; this time from a somewhat vicious parody on my rival Rickard's prize poem: it is fairest to produce at length first his serious conclusion to the normal fifty-liner, and then my less reverent imitation of it.

Here, then, is the end of Rickard's poem:-- "Bright was the doom which snatched her favourite son, Nor came too soon to him whose task was done.
Long burned his restless spirit to explore That stream which eye had never tracked before, Whose course, 'tis said, in Western springs begun Flows on eternal to the rising sun! Though thousand perils seemed to bar his way, And all save him shrunk backward in dismay, Still hope prophetic poured the ardent prayer To reach that stream, though doomed to perish there! That prayer was heard; by Niger's mystic flood One rapturous day the speechless dreamer stood, Fixt on that stream his glistening eyes he kept,-- The sun went down,--the wayworn wanderer slept!" So much for the prize-taker; the prize-loser vented his spleen as thus:-- "Bright was the doom that diddled Mungo Park, Yet very palpably obscure and dark.
Long burned his throat, for want of coming nigh That stream he long'd and pray'd for wistfully, Whose course, 'tis said, that no one can tell where It flows eternal; guessing isn't fair.
Though miles a thousand had he tramp'd along, And all, save him, were sure that path was wrong, Still hope prophetic poured the ardent prayer He'd find that stream,--if it was anywhere! That prayer was heard, of course, though no one knows Where this said Niger never flowed, or flows; All that is known is, that a dreamer stood In speechless transport by a mystic flood, And after fixing on't his glistening eyes, The sun goes down, and so the dreamer dies!" For the fourth promised specimen, the best excuse is that Garbet really did utter the words quoted,--and the answer he received about love is exact, and became famous:-- "'Didst e'er read Dante!'-- Never.

'Cruel man! Take, take him, Williams,--I--I never can.'" _N.B._--Williams was the other examiner.

Garbet went on with a further question nevertheless,--as he was affectedly fond of Italian:-- "'Dost know the language love delights in most?
If thou dost not, thy character is lost.' 'Yes, sir!'-- the youth retorts with just surprise, 'Love's language is the language of the eyes!'" In those days, as perhaps also in these, like Pope, "I spake in numbers," verse being almost--well, not quite--easier than prose.

In fact, some of my critics have heretofore to my disparagement stumbled on the printed truth that he is little better than an improvisatore in rhyme.