'He's neither firm nor settled, nor would be,
Though he should spin to all eternity.'
E'en Humboldt, who handles nothing lightly,
Treats me in his Cosmos far from politely,
And should he write--I ask all--
And am I such a rascal?--
'The wandering comet, much thinner than foam,
With the smallest corps takes up the greatest room.'
But bide yon star-gazing spitefuls!--bide?
You don't know me yet from the innermost side.