“It’s a poem to Mabel by that beast Browne,” he said.
Then he read it out, half to himself, but I heard. The thing ran like
this:
"TO MABEL
“Oh let my Muse sing to the name of Mabel,
Whose azure eyes are fastened to my soul,
Like to forget-me-nots in button-hole.
To tell of my heart’s torment I’m unable.
My thoughts they spin; my brain it grows unstable
When fixed on Thee. Perchance it is my rôle
Never to reach my mad ambition’s Goal,
But to live ever ’midst scholastic babel.
Thy glances brighten all my lonely lot.
Prometheus-like a vulture gnaws my heart,
In biting blasts and under sunshine hot.
My dreams are shattered by a barbed dart,
And, waking wild, I scream that I may not
Whisper the oaths I yearn to Thee impart.”