DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MENWithin my dark and narrow bedI rested well, new-laid:I heard above my fleshless headThe grinding of a spade.A gruffer note ensued and grewTo harsh and harsher strains:The poet Welcker then I knewWas "snatching" my remains."O Welcker, let your hand be stayedAnd leave me here in peace.Of your revenge you should have madeAn end with my decease.""Hush, Mouldyshanks, and hear my moan:I once, as you're aware,Was eminent in letters—knownAnd honored everywhere."My splendor made all Berkeley brightAnd Sacramento blind.Men swore no writer e'er could writeLike me—if I'd a mind."With honors all insatiate,With curst ambition smit,Too far, alas! I tempted fate—Ipublishedwhat I'd writ!"Good Heaven! with what a hunger wildOblivion swallows fame!Men who have known me from a childForget my very name!"Even creditors with searching looksMy face cannot recall;My heaviest one—he prints my books—Oblivious most of all."O I should feel a sweet contentIf one poor dun his claimWould bring to me for settlement,And bully me by name."My dog is at my gate forlorn;It howls through all the night,And when I greet it in the mornIt answers with a bite!""O Poet, what in Satan's nameTo me's all this ado?Will snatching me restore the fameThat printing snatched from you?""Peace, dread Remains; I'm not aboutTo do a deed of sin.I come not here to hale you out—I'm trying to get in."
Within my dark and narrow bedI rested well, new-laid:I heard above my fleshless headThe grinding of a spade.A gruffer note ensued and grewTo harsh and harsher strains:The poet Welcker then I knewWas "snatching" my remains."O Welcker, let your hand be stayedAnd leave me here in peace.Of your revenge you should have madeAn end with my decease.""Hush, Mouldyshanks, and hear my moan:I once, as you're aware,Was eminent in letters—knownAnd honored everywhere."My splendor made all Berkeley brightAnd Sacramento blind.Men swore no writer e'er could writeLike me—if I'd a mind."With honors all insatiate,With curst ambition smit,Too far, alas! I tempted fate—Ipublishedwhat I'd writ!"Good Heaven! with what a hunger wildOblivion swallows fame!Men who have known me from a childForget my very name!"Even creditors with searching looksMy face cannot recall;My heaviest one—he prints my books—Oblivious most of all."O I should feel a sweet contentIf one poor dun his claimWould bring to me for settlement,And bully me by name."My dog is at my gate forlorn;It howls through all the night,And when I greet it in the mornIt answers with a bite!""O Poet, what in Satan's nameTo me's all this ado?Will snatching me restore the fameThat printing snatched from you?""Peace, dread Remains; I'm not aboutTo do a deed of sin.I come not here to hale you out—I'm trying to get in."