22 THE FLY AND THE POET. 



One day, towards the end of the same August, whose first 

 was made, as we have just commemorated, a big black-letter 

 day in our Poet's calendar, he was called on, in the midst of 

 his heaviness, to furnish something light, just to puff out what 

 would else have been a slender number of the Milliner's 

 Magazine. In the same parlour, under much such a heavy sky, 

 before him the same sorry equipage for tea, beside him a like 

 bit of melting butter, nothing would have been wanted, but 

 the Fly defunct, the fly-leaf burned, the manuscript burned too, 

 to bring back to its author's mind, had it been ever absent, that 

 notable era when his second grand Epic was completed. There 

 he sat, like the distressed Poet of the " Moral Painter," like 

 him might have " p'lunged for his thought/' and like him have 

 " found no bottom there," only that to save diving, he seized 

 the lightsome object brought vividly to remembrance, with all 

 its heavy associations, by the scene, the hour, and the weather. 

 In short, he caught again that villain Fly, and committed him, 

 in the following strain, once more to paper : 



THE FLY AND THE POET. 



DARK were the cares of the Poet's breast, 



Grand were the thoughts of his head, 

 But sad thoughts and grand ones must all be represt, 



For he had to write nonsense for bread. 



Proud was the curl on the Poet's lip, 



And big was the tear in his eye ; 

 Scarce he saw in the inkstand his pen to dip, 



But he saw on its summit a Fly. 



There Blue-bottle sat, and stroked down his face 



With a twirl of his head, twice or thrice, 

 Then says he, " Brother bard I pity your case, 



And have brought you a bit of advice. 



" Nay, man, never wince ! I heed not your scorn, 



'Tis a fact, and I'll presently show it, 

 That if not, as you think yourself, Poet born, 



I'm by place and by feeding a Poet. 



