A Letter to His Lordship

76, Upper Ebury Street, Pimlico, S.W., 6th May, 1865.

My Lord, I’ve scann’d your answer to my meek request, Which prompts the feeling in my studious breast— A silent hoping—that, some future day, My pen may gain thy Lordship’s solacy.

Being train’d to disappointment, trust me, lord, I lie not down; but steadfast to my word, Shall persevere with all my heart and soul; Shall still dip pens into the inken-bowl; Shall strive to write my F (two) o o (and) t, And trust they’ll grace a book of poetry,— If not of merit such as Wits admire, I must expect their silence, or satire: Ah! should it be the latter, I obtain, ’Twill be encouragement to try again. O, had I but a tithe of Alfred’s spark, I’d launch again my little hopeful bark, Into the ocean of my soul’s delight! Would prose all day, and sometimes half the night; Would scribble out blank verse, or couplets, free; Would ’queath its pages to futurity. And when my sand-glass had run out its last,— My eyes for ever had been closed and fast,— Perchance some kindred creature would have fix’d On some plain stone, the lines herewith annex’d:— “Oh! grant, here—reader, but one moment’s pause— Behold—this man did ransack o’er his brain; And found a word or two to help the cause, So strove to rhythm them in humble strain.”

But ere, my lord, I stop my feeble muse, I ask of thee, and feel thou’lt not refuse, To send me back those manuscripts of mine— That I may write them in corrected line: And when my scroll is publish’d, I shall crave Your Lordship’s care of one. (Now, to be grave)— Pray give allowance for my ignorance— If I am pert; if I, through lack of sense, Have trespass’d on your Lordship’s valued time— Some specimens of my attempted rhyme. ’Tis not my wish to cornet forth my name, Nor can I e’er expect to gather fame, But only hope, my lord, you kindly will Assist me up the literary hill.

I am,

My Lord,

Your Lordship’s most obedient Servant,