BY FALSE PRETENSESJohn S. Hittell, whose sovereign genius wieldsThe 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 fameFrom the high vantage of a dusty shelf,Secure from all the world except himself;—Who told the tale of "Culture" in a screedThat 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 proclaimThe hue of any color you can name,And knows a painting with a canvas backDistinguished from a duck by the duck's quack;—This thinker and philosopher, whose workIs 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 nightSweetly unconscious that the wretch could write.
John S. Hittell, whose sovereign genius wieldsThe 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 fameFrom the high vantage of a dusty shelf,Secure from all the world except himself;—Who told the tale of "Culture" in a screedThat 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 proclaimThe hue of any color you can name,And knows a painting with a canvas backDistinguished from a duck by the duck's quack;—This thinker and philosopher, whose workIs 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 nightSweetly unconscious that the wretch could write.