Sometimes, at table, as you well must know,
The stream of talk will all at once run low,
The air seems smitten with a sudden chill,
The wit grows silent and the gossip still;
This was our poet's chance, the hour of need,
When rhymes and stories we were used to read.
One day a whisper round the teacups stole,—
“No scrap of paper in the silver bowl!”
(Our “poet's corner” may I not expect
My kindly reader still may recollect?)
“What! not a line to keep our souls alive?”
Spoke in her silvery accents Number Five.
“No matter, something we must find to read,—
Find it or make it,—yes, we must indeed!
Now I remember I have seen at times
Some curious stories in a book of rhymes,—
How certain secrets, long in silence sealed,
In after days were guessed at or revealed.
Those stories, doubtless, some of you must know,—
They all were written many a year ago;
But an old story, be it false or true,
Twice told, well told, is twice as good as new;
Wait but three sips and I will go myself,
And fetch the book of verses from its shelf.”
No time was lost in finding what she sought,—
Gone but one moment,—lo! the book is brought.
“Now, then, Professor, fortune has decreed
That you, this evening, shall be first to read,—
Lucky for us that listen, for in fact
Who reads this poem must know how to act.”
Right well she knew that in his greener age
He had a mighty hankering for the stage.
The patient audience had not long to wait;
Pleased with his chance, he smiled and took the bait;
Through his wild hair his coaxing fingers ran,—
He spread the page before him and began.
