And set his very soul a-thrilling!

A poet, much too poor to live,
Too poor in this rich world to rove;
Too poor for aught but verse to give,
But not, thank God, too poor to love!

Gives thee his little doggerel lay;--One
truth I tell, in sorrow tell it:
I'm forced to give my verse away,
Because, alas! I cannot sell it.

And should you with a critic's eye
Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner,
Reflect, dear girl I that such as I,
Six times a-week don't get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine,
Will damp the genius, curb the spirit:
These wants I'll own are often mine;--But
can't allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks
At poet's pond, nicknamed divine;
Say what he will, I know he thinks
That all he writes is wondrous fine!



THE STEAM-BOAT.