'
'Well, well,' said Rupert; 'go on; have you only two more?'
'Only two,' said Elizabeth; 'Kate and Lucy behaved as shabbily as you
did. Helen, I believe you must read yours. I can never read your
writing readily, and besides, I am growing hoarse.'
Helen obeyed.
How hard it is to write a POEM,
Graceful and witty, plain and clear,
Harder than ploughing--'tis, or sowing,
So hard that I should shed a TEAR.
Did I not know the highest pitch
Of merit, in the poet's EYES
Is but to laugh, a height to WHICH
'Tis not so hard for me to rise.
For badness soon is gained, forth BOUNCE
My rhymes such as they are;
Good critics, on my lines don't pounce,
Though on the ear they JAR.
I've had a letter from dear FRANCES,
Who says, through the light plane tree LEAVES,
Upon the lawn the sun-beam glances,
The wheat is bound up in its sheaves
By Richard, in the fustian JACKET
His mistress bought at HARROGATE,
And up in lofty ricks they stack it,
There for the threshing will it wait.
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