University of Virginia Library


97

To Correspondents

My postman, though I fear thy tread,
And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,
'Tis not the Christmas dun I dread,
My mortal foe is much severer—
The unknown correspondent, who,
With indefatigable pen,
And nothing in the world to do,
Perplexes literary men.
From Pentecost and Ponder's End
They write: from Deal, and from Dacota;
The people of the Shetlands send
No inconsiderable quota;
They write for autographs; in vain—
In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora;
They write that Allan Quatermain
Is not at all the book for Brora.

98

They write to say that they have met
This writer ‘at a garden party,
And though’ this writer ‘may forget’
Their recollection's keen and hearty;
‘And will you praise in your reviews
A novel by our distant cousin.’
These letters from provincial blues
Assail us daily by the dozen.
O friends with time upon your hands,
O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,
O poets out of many lands,
O youths and maidens under twenty,
Seek out some other wretch to bore,
Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,
And leave me to my dusty lore
And my unprofitable labours!