THE LAST PROOF; AN EPILOGUE TO ANY PROOF by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON

'Finissons. Mais demain, Muse, a recommencer.' -- BOILEAU.

'FINIS at last -- the end, the End, the END!
No more of paragraphs to prune or mend;
No more blue pencil, with its ruthless line,
To blot the phrase "particularly fine";
No more of "slips," and "galleys," and "revises,"
Of words "transmogrified," and "wild surmises";
No more of n's that masquerade as u's,
No nice perplexities of p's and q's;
No more mishaps of ante and of post,
That most mislead when they should help the most;
No more of "friend" as "fiend," and "warm" as "worm";
No more negations where we would affirm;
No more of those mysterious freaks of fate
That make us bless when we should execrate;
No more of those last blunders that remain
Where we no more can set them right again:
No more apologies for doubtful data;
No more fresh facts that figure as Errata;
No more, in short, O TYPE, of wayward lore
From thy most un-Pierian fount -- NO MORE!'
So spoke PAPYRIUS. Yet his hand meanwhile
Went vaguely seeking for the vacant file,
Late stored with long array of notes, but now
Bare-wired and barren as a leafless bough; --
And even as he spoke, his mind began
Again to scheme, to purpose and to plan.

There is no end to Labour 'neath the sun;
There is no end of labouring -- but One;
And though we 'twitch [or not] our Mantle blue,'
'To-morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.'

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