I hear it occurred to them to call upon the Muses of music and war.
Said the pot of stew surveying the room, “Gabriel Grub was carried away.
He used to stop in every night before.”
A garbled word in shaky Cyrillic,
Symbol of an empire fallen, and van Winkle, awake,
Trembling at such a thing.
They seemed rather to think that the old poet-kings were dead, and that gave them license.
Now Samuel, slumping through the halls, contents himself with memories of oils unspilled,
Unaware that what he thinks is nonsense.