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Lucullus Languish, student of the skies,And connoisseur of rarebits and mince pies,A bard by choice, a grocer’s clerk by trade,(Grown pessimist through honours long delay’d)A secret yearning bore, that he might shineIn breathing numbers, and in song divine.Each day his fountain pen was wont to dropAn ode or dirge or two about the shop,Yet naught could strike the chord within his heartThat throbb’d for poesy, and cry’d for art.Each eve he sought his bashful Muse to wakeWith overdoses of ice cream and cake,But though th’ ambitious youth a dreamer grew,Th’ Aonian Nymph delcin’d to come to view.

Sometimes at dusk he scour’d the heav’ns afarSearching for raptures in the evening star;One night he strove to catch a tale untoldIn crystal deeps – but only caught a cold.So pin’d Lucullus with his lofty woe,Till one drear day he bought a set of Poe:Charm’d with the cheerful horrors there display’d,He vow’d with gloom to woo the Heav’nly Maid.Of Auber’s Tarn and Yaanek’s slope he dreams,And weaves an hundred Ravens in his schemes.Not far from our young hero’s peaceful home,Lies the fair grove wherein he loves to roam.Tho’ but a stunted copse in vacant lot,He dubs it Tempe, and adores the spot;When shallow puddles dot the wooded plain,

And brim o’er muddy banks with muddy rain,He calls them limpid lakes or poison pools,(Depending on which bard his fancy rules).‘Tis here he comes with Heliconian fireOn Sundays when he smites the Attic lyre;And here one afternoon he brought his gloom,Resolv’d to chant a poet’s lay of doom.Roget’s Thesaurus, and a book of rhymes,Provide the rungs whereon his spirit climbs:With this grave retinue he trod the groveAnd pray’d the Fauns he might a Poe-et prove.But sad to tell, ere Pegasus flew high,The not unrelish’d supper hour drew nigh;Our tuneful swain th’ imperious call attends,

And soon above the groaning table bends.Though it were too prosaic to relateTh’ exact particulars of what he ate,(Such long-drawn lists the hasty reader skips,Like Homer’s well-known catalogue of ships)This much we swear: that as adjournment near’d,A monstrous lot of cake had disappear’d!Soon to his chamber the young bard repairs,And courts soft Somnus with sweet Lydian airs;Thro’ open casement scans the star-strown deep,And ‘neath Orion’s beams sinks off to sleep.Now start from airy dell the elfin trainThat dance each midnight o’er the sleeping plain,To bless the just, or cast a warning spellOn those who dine not wisely, but too well.

First Deacon Smith they plague, whose nasal glowComes from what Holmes hath call’d “Elixir Pro”;Group’d round the couch his visage they deride,Whilst through his dreams unnumber’d serpents glide.Next troop the little folk into the roomWhere snore our young Endymion, swath’d in gloom:A smile lights up his boyish face, whilst heDreams of the moon – or what he ate at tea.The chieftain elf th’ unconscious youth surveys,And on his form a strange enchantment lays:Those lips, that lately trill’d with frosted cake,Uneasy sounds in slumbrous fashion make;At length their owner’s fancies they rehearse,And lisp this awesome Poe-em in blank verse: