And think their trash deserves a lasting name. Immortal, I behold the passing show Of little witlings ruling things below, And smile to see, repeated o'er and o'er, The literary tricks I lash'd before, And lash again, with satisfaction deep; And other 'rods in pickle' I shall keep For those who on my memory slanders fling, Envying the songs they have no power to sing! "Gods of Olympus! Comrades of my thought, Where is the fire that once Prometheus brought To light the world? It warmed _my_ ardent veins, And still the nations echo forth my strains; Greece still doth hold me as her minstrel dear And decks with fragrant myrtle boughs my bier-- ENGLAND forgets--but England is no more The England that our fathers loved of yore-- A huckster's stall--a swarming noisy den Of bargaining, brutal, ignorant, moneyed men-- England, historic England! She is dead, And o'er her dust the conquering traders tread, Crowning with shameful glory on her grave, Some greasy Jew or speculating knave; While blundering GLADSTONE, double-tongued and sly, Rules; the dread 'Struldbrug,'[2] who will never die! "Thus far I've held my undisturbed career Prepared for rancour--spirits know not fear! Catch me, a Ghost, who can! Who knows the way? Cheer on the pack! The quarry stands at bay; Unmoved by all the 'Savile' logs that roll-- I stand supreme, a deathless poet-soul-- Careless of LANG'S resentment, GOSSE'S spite, SWINBURNE'S small envy, ARNOLD'S judgment trite, HENLEY'S weak scratch, or _Pall Mall_ petty rage, Or the dull _Saturday's_ unlessoned page-- Such 'men in buckram' shall have blows enough, And feel they too are 'penetrable stuff,' And by stern Compensation's law shall be Racked on the judgment-wheel they meant for me! "Adieu! Adieu! I see the spectral sail That wafts me upwards, trembling in the gale, And many a starry coast and glistening height And fairy paradise will greet my sight, And I shall stray through many a golden clime Where angels wander, crowned with light sublime; When I am gone away into that land Publish at once this ghostly reprimand, And tell the puling scribblers of the town I yet can hunt 'boomed' reputations down! Yet spurn the rod a critic bids me kiss, Nor care if clubs or cliques applaud or hiss, And though I vanish into finer air The spirit of my Muse is everywhere; Let all the 'boomed' and 'booming' dunces know BYRON still lives--their dauntless, stubborn Foe!" Enunciating the last two lines with tremendous emphasis, the noble Ghost folded up his scroll. I noticed that in the course of his reading he frequently repeated his former self, and borrowed largely from an already published world-famous Satire; and I ventured to say as much in a mild _sotto voce_.