And I'm glad Billy's neither Emile nor Rousseau--
Such my fate is to listen to, longing to slope--
Then come horrid long epics of Dryden and Pope,
Which I mentally swear a big oath I'll confine
To the tombs of the Capulets, every line--
Not but what the old beggars may do in their way,
Gad! Uncommonly fine soporifics are they;
But they seem after Tennyson, Shelley, and Poe
Just a trifle _too_ Rosy for Billy Barlow--
Oh, dear Raggedy, oh!
Ulalume and Ænone for William Barlow.

Erst, they're short. Then they breathe in their mystical tone
An essence, a spirit, a draught which alone
Can content Billy's lust, for the weird and unknown
(Billy's out of his depth) they've an undefined sense
Of the infinite 'mersed in their sorrow intense
(Billy's sinking! A rope! Some one quick! Damn it! hence
That mystical feeling so sweetly profound
Which weaves round the senses a spell (Billy's drowned)
(Here run for the drags of the Royal Humane!)
A mystical feeling, half rapture, half pain,
Such as moves in sweet melodies, such as entrances
In Chopin's 'Etudes,' and in Schubert's 'Romances.'

Ah! Chopin's 'Impromptu'! Schubert's 'Serenade'!
Have you ever heard these pretty decently played?
If you haven't, old fellow, I'll merely observe
That a treat most delicious you have in reserve.
Lord! How Billy's soul grazes in diggins of clover,