Is brought to death’s door of a mental dyspepsy. 
On a previous stage of existence, our Hero
Had ridden outside, with the glass below zero;
He had been, ’tis a fact you may safely rely on,
Of a very old stock a most eminent scion,—­ 110
A stock all fresh quacks their fierce boluses ply on,
Who stretch the new boots Earth’s unwilling to try on,
Whom humbugs of all shapes and sorts keep their eye on,
Whose hair’s in the mortar of every new Zion,
Who, when whistles are dear, go directly and buy one,
Who think slavery a crime that we must not say fie on,
Who hunt, if they e’er hunt at all, with the lion
(Though they hunt lions also, whenever they spy one),
Who contrive to make every good fortune a wry one,
And at last choose the hard bed of honor to die on, 120
Whose pedigree, traced to earth’s earliest years,
Is longer than anything else but their ears,—­
In short, he was sent into life with the wrong key,
He unlocked the door, and stept forth a poor donkey. 
Though kicked and abused by his bipedal betters
Yet he filled no mean place in the kingdom of letters;
Far happier than many a literary hack,
He bore only paper-mill rags on his back
(For It makes a vast difference which side the mill
One expends on the paper his labor and skill); 130
So, when his soul waited a new transmigration,
And Destiny balanced ’twixt this and that station,
Not having much time to expend upon bothers,
Remembering he’d had some connection with authors,
And considering his four legs had grown paralytic,—­
She set him on two, and he came forth a critic.

Through his babyhood no kind of pleasure he took In any amusement but tearing a book; For him there was no intermediate stage From babyhood up to straight-laced middle age; 140 There were years when he didn’t wear coat-tails behind, But a boy he could never be rightly defined; like the Irish Good Folk, though in length scarce a span, From the womb he came gravely, a little old man; While other boys’ trousers demanded the toil Of the motherly fingers on all kinds of soil, Red, yellow, brown, black, clayey, gravelly, loamy, He sat in the corner and read Viri Romae.  He never was known to unbend or to revel once In base, marbles, hockey, or kick up the devil once; 150 He was just one of those who excite the benevolence Of your old prigs who sound the soul’s depths with a ledger, And are on the lookout for some young men to ’edger-cate,’ as they call it, who won’t be too costly, And who’ll afterward take to the ministry mostly; Who always wear spectacles, always look bilious, Always keep on good terms with each mater-familias Throughout the whole parish, and manage to rear Ten boys like themselves, on four hundred a year:  Who, fulfilling in turn the same fearful conditions, 160 Either preach through their noses, or go upon missions.