CV.

He first sank to the bottom--like his works, But soon rose to the surface--like himself; For all corrupted things are buoyed like corks,[565] By their own rottenness, light as an elf, Or wisp that flits o'er a morass: he lurks, It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or "Vision,"[ht] As Welborn says--"the Devil turned precisian."[566]