  The curtain falls, as ends the play, And all the audience go away; And did the piece give satisfaction? Methinks they found it of attraction. A much-respected public then Its poet thankfully commended; But now the house is hush’d again, And lights and merriment are ended. But hark to that dull heavy clang Hard by the empty stage’s middle! It was perchance the bursting twang Of the worn string of some old fiddle. With rustling noise across the pit Some nasty rats like shadows flit, And rancid oil all places smell of, And the last lamp, with groans and sighs Despairing, then goes out and dies.— My soul was this poor light I tell of. |
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