XII.

No one could read his books--no mortal, But a few natural friends, would hear him; The parson came not near his portal; His state was like that of the immortal Described by Swift--no man could bear him.

His sister, wife, and children yawned, With a long, slow, and drear ennui, All human patience far beyond; Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned, Anywhere else to be.

But in his verse, and in his prose, The essence of his dullness was Concentred and compressed so close, 'Twould have made Guatimozin doze On his red gridiron of brass.