Postlude

The book is finished! With a sigh,
My pen upon the desk I lay;
The weary task is o'er, and I
Am off upon a holiday,
To Paris, lovely Paris, where
I have a little ventr'-a-terre.

And tho' my verses may be weak,
And call for your severest strictures,
The illustrations are unique,--
I really never saw such pictures!
(At times, in my unthinking way,
I almost hope I never may.)