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.