Phantasmagoria and Other Poems

As one who strives a hill to climb,Who never climbed before:Who finds it, in a little time,Grow every moment less sublime,And votes the thing a bore:Yet, having once begun to try,Dares not desert his quest,But, climbing, ever keeps his eyeOn one small hut against the skyWherein he hopes to rest:Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,With many a puff and pant:Who still, as rises the ascent,In language grows more violent,Although in breath more scant:Who, climbing, gains at length the placeThat crowns the upward track.And, entering with unsteady pace,Receives a buffet in the faceThat lands him on his back:And feels himself, like one in sleep,Glide swiftly down again,A helpless weight, from steep to steep,Till, with a headlong giddy sweep,

He drops upon the plain —So I, that had resolved to bringConviction to a ghost,And found it quite a different thingFrom any human arguing,Yet dared not quit my postBut, keeping still the end in viewTo which I hoped to come,I strove to prove the matter trueBy putting everything I knewInto an axiom:Commencing every single phraseWith 'therefore' or 'because,'I blindly reeled, a hundred ways,About the syllogistic maze,Unconscious where I was.Quoth he "That's regular clap-trap:Don't bluster any more.Now do be cool and take a nap!Such a ridiculous old chapWas never seen before!"You're like a man I used to meet,Who got one day so furiousIn arguing, the simple heat

Scorched both his slippers off his feet!"I said "That's very curious !""Well, it is curious, I agree,And sounds perhaps like fibs:But still it's true as true can be —As sure as your name's Tibbs," said he.I said "My name's not Tibbs.""Not Tibbs!" he cried — his tone becameA shade or two less hearty —"Why, no," said I. "My proper nameIs Tibbets — " "Tibbets?" "Aye, the same.""Why, then YOU'RE NOT THE PARTY!"With that he struck the board a blowThat shivered half the glasses."Why couldn't you have told me soThree quarters of an hour ago,You prince of all the asses?"To walk four miles through mud and rain,To spend the night in smoking,And then to find that it's in vain —And I've to do it all again —It's really too provoking!"Don't talk!" he cried, as I beganTo mutter some excuse.

"Who can have patience with a manThat's got no more discretion thanAn idiotic goose?"To keep me waiting here, insteadOf telling me at onceThat this was not the house!" he said."There, that'll do — be off to bed!Don't gape like that, you dunce!""It's very fine to throw the blameOn me in such a fashion!Why didn't you enquire my nameThe very minute that you came?"I answered in a passion."Of course it worries you a bitTo come so far on foot —But how was I to blame for it?""Well, well!" said he. "I must admitThat isn't badly put."And certainly you've given meThe best of wine and victual —Excuse my violence," said he,"But accidents like this, you see,They put one out a little."'Twas my

fault after all, I find —Shake hands, old Turnip-top!"The name was hardly to my mind,But, as no doubt he meant it kind,I let the matter drop."Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!When I am gone, perhapsThey'll send you some inferior Sprite,Who'll keep you in a constant frightAnd spoil your soundest naps."Tell him you'll stand no sort of trick;Then, if he leers and chuckles,You just be handy with a stick(Mind that it's pretty hard and thick)And rap him on the knuckles!"Then carelessly remark 'Old coon!Perhaps you're not awareThat, if you don't behave, you'll soonBe chuckling to another tune —And so you'd best take care!'"That's the right way to cure a SpriteOf such like goings-on —But gracious me! It's getting light!Good-night, old Turnip-top, good-night!"A nod, and he was gone.