On his face I read Signs of high sadness such as poets wear, Being divinely discontented with The praise of _jeunes filles_. Even as I looked, He touched the portion of his pipe reserved For minor poetry of solemn tone, Checking the humorous stops intended for Electioneering posters and the like; And therewithal he made the following Addition to his _Songs Unsung_, or else His _Unremarked Remarks_: "Dear Sir," he said, "Excuse my saying 'Sir' like that; it is Our way in Hades here among the damned; For you must know that some of us are damned Not only by faint praise but full applause Of simple critics. Take my case. In me Behold the good knight Marsyas, M.A., Three times a candidate for Parliament, And twice retired; a Justice of the Peace; Master of Arts (I said), and better known In literary spheres as Master of The Mediocre-Obvious; and read By boarding-misses in their myriads. These dote upon me. Sweetly have I sung The commonplaces of philosophy In common parlance. You have read perhaps The Cymric Triads? Poetry, they say, Excels alone by sheer simplicity Of language, subject, and invention. Sir! The excellence of mine lay that way too. But fate is partial. Heaven's fulgour moulds 'To happiness some, some to unhappiness!' (Look you, the harp was Welsh that figured forth That excellent last line.) I ask you, Sir, What would you? Ill content with mortal praise, And haply somewhat overbold, I sought To be as gods be; sought, in fact, to filch Apollo's bays! Ah me! Dear me! I fain Would use a stronger phrase, but hardly dare, Being, whatever else, respectable. I say I tired of vulgar homage, gift Of ignorance. 'High failure overleaps The bounds of low successes' (there, again, The harp that twanged was Welsh, but with an echo Of Browning). Godlike it must be, I thought, To climb the giddy brink; to pen, for instance, An Ode to the Imperial Institute, And fall, if bound to, from a decent height. I did and missed the laurel; still I go On writing; what you hear just now is blank, Distinctly blank, and might be measured by The kilomètre; yet I rhyme as well A little; but it takes a lot of time, And checks the lapse of my pellucid stream Not all conveniently." Thereat he paused, And wrung the moisture from his pipe; but I, As one that was intolerably bored, Took even this occasion to be gone; And, going, marked him how he took his stile, Polished the waxen tablets, and began To make a Royal Pæan _by request_, Or so he said. 4. THE RHYME OF THE KIPPERLING. (AFTER R. K.) [N.B.--No nautical terms or statements guaranteed.]