Black Beetles in Amber

John S. Hittell, whose sovereign genius wields

The quill his tributary body yields;

The author of an opera—that is,

All but the music and libretto's his:

A work renowned, whose formidable name,

Linked with his own, repels the assault of fame

From the high vantage of a dusty shelf,

Secure from all the world except himself;—

Who told the tale of "Culture" in a screed

That all might understand if some would read;—

Master of poesy and lord of prose,

Dowered, like a setter, with a double nose;

That one for Erato, for Clio this;

He flushes both—not his fault if we miss;—

Judge of the painter's art, who'll straight proclaim

The hue of any color you can name,

And knows a painting with a canvas back

Distinguished from a duck by the duck's quack;—

This thinker and philosopher, whose work

Is famous from Commercial street to Turk,

Has got a fortune now, his talent's meed.

A woman left it him who could not read,

And so went down to death's eternal night

Sweetly unconscious that the wretch could write.