"Ah! little knew we then what ills await
"Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state;
"Bepuft on earth--how loudly Str--t can tell--
"And, dire reward, now doubly puft in hell!"
Touched with compassion for this ghastly crew,
Whose ribs even now the hollow wind sung thro'
In mournful prose,--such prose as Rosa's[2] ghost
Still, at the accustomed hour of eggs and toast,
Sighs thro' the columns of the _Morning Post_,--
Pensive I turned to weep, when he who stood
Foremost of all that flatulential brood,
Singling a _she_-ghost from the party, said,
"Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,[3]
"One of our _lettered_ nymphs--excuse the pun--
"Who gained a name on earth by--having none;
"And whose initials would immortal be,
"Had she but learned those plain ones, A. B. C.
"Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat,
"Wrapt in his own dead rhymes--fit winding-sheet--
"Still marvels much that not a soul should care
"One single pin to know who wrote 'May Fair;'--
"While this young gentleman," (here forth he drew
A dandy spectre, puft quite thro' and thro',
As tho' his ribs were an AEolian lyre
For the whole Row's soft _trade_winds to inspire,)
"This modest genius breathed one wish alone,
"To have his volume read, himself unknown;
"But different far the course his glory took,
"All knew the author, and--none read the book.
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