“Why should I detain you longer? Every day the tie grows stronger, Binding me to my familiar, who will never say farewell. I am here to ask your aid, sir, and have somewhat you delay’d, sir, With my story, I’m afraid, sir, with the sorry tale I tell; Of this cursed weird grimalkin, this strange history to tell, Of this visitor from hell.” * * * * * Soon the ship away was steering, and the whaler’s crew were cheering Loudly the brave British vessel that had help’d them when afloat; On the poop two eyes were beaming, green eyes through the darkness gleaming, And a tail outstretch’d, outstreaming, as it stream’d when in the boat, When the captain bade farewell, and sadly left us in the boat, Fear in eye and husky throat. * * * * * Several verses of this very long parody have been omitted; it is contained in _The Mocking-Bird and other Poems_, by Frederick Field (J. Van Voorst) London, 1868. ―――――――― THE CROAKER. Once in a dress-circle, weary with discussing many a query Of the palmy days of acting, and of quaint dramatic lore―― While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at a chamber-door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “outside the dress-circle door, Wants a seat, and nothing more.” Then the flapping――sad, uncertain, rustling of the painted curtain―― Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic visions never felt before Of the coming Macbeth’s greeting, wondering if his repeating Would delight me; while the visitor kept tapping at the door, And I said “Where is the box-keeper, to open yonder door? For the tapping is a bore.” And myself the door unlocking, just to end the tiresome knocking, In there stepped a solemn Croaker of the palmy days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he, Passed each fashionable lady with long skirts upon the floor, Scanned his voucher through gold-mounted and green spectacles he wore, Took his seat, and nothing more. Then this Croaker grave, beguiling my sad fancy into smiling By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance he wore. Though his aspect was un_nerving_, I began to speak of Irving―― For I’ doubted not that he had seen of Macbeths many a score―― And I blandly then suggested a Shakespearian treat in store, When he answered, “Nevermore.”