A TENNYSONIAN FRAGMENT.

[Illustration]

So in the village inn the Poet dwelt.
His honey-dew was gone; only the pouch,
His cousin's work, her empty labour, left.
But still he sniffed it, still a fragrance clung
And lingered all about the broidered flowers.
Then came his landlord, saying in broad Scotch,
"Smoke plug, mon," whom he looked at doubtfully.
Then came the grocer, saying, "Hae some twist
At tippence," whom he answered with a qualm.
But when they left him to himself again,
Twist, like a fiend's breath from a distant room
Diffusing through the passage, crept; the smell
Deepening had power upon him, and he mixt
His fancies with the billow-lifted bay
Of Biscay, and the rollings of a ship.

And on that night he made a little song,
And called his song "_The Song of Twist and Plug_,"
And sang it: scarcely could he make or sing.

"Rank is black plug, though smoked in wind and rain;
And rank is twist, which gives no end of pain;
I know not which is ranker, no, not I.

"Plug, art thou rank? Then milder twist must be;
Plug, thou art milder; rank is twist to me.