Then I sat engaged in guessing what this circumstance distressing Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him that if sinking In the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he’d find my door Always open to receive him, and it struck me now that door He would pass, p’raps never more! Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture enshrouded With the smoke of vile tobacco――this was worse than all before; “Smith!” I cried (in not offensive tones, it might have been expensive, For he knew the art defensive, and could costermongers floor); “Recollect it’s after midnight, _are_ you going?――mind the floor.” Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!” “Smith!” I cried (the gin was going, down his throat in rivers flowing), “If you want a bed, you know there’s quite a nice hotel next door, Very cheap. I’m ill――and, joking set apart, your horrid smoking Irritates my cough to choking. Having mentioned it before, Really, you should not compel one――_Will_ you mizzle――as before?” Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!” “Smith!” I cried, “that joke repeating merits little better treating For you than a condemnation as a nuisance and a bore. Drop it, pray, it isn’t funny; I’ve to mix some rum and honey―― If you want a little money, take some and be off next door; Run a bill up for me if you like, but _do_ be off next door.” Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!” “Smith!” I shriek’d――the accent humbler dropping, as another tumbler I beheld him mix, “be off! you drive me mad――it’s striking four. Leave the house and something in it; if you go on at the gin, it Wont hold out another minute. Leave the house and shut the door―― _Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body through the door!_” Quoth the Vulture, “Never more!” And the Vulture never flitting――still is sitting, still is sitting, Gulping down my stout by gallons, and my oysters by the score; And the beast, with no more breeding than a heathen savage feeding, The new carpet’s tints unheeding, throws his shells upon the floor. And his smoke from out my curtains, and his stains from out my floor, Shall be sifted never more! ―――――――― THE TANKARD. Sitting in my lonely chamber, in this dreary, dark December, Gazing on the whitening ashes of my fastly-fading fire, Pond’ring o’er my misspent chances with that grief which time enhances―― Misdirected application, wanting aims and objects higher,―― Aims to which I should aspire.