Catch me, a Ghost, who can! Who knows the way?
Cheer on the pack! The quarry stands at bay;
Unmoved by all the 'Savile' logs that roll—
I stand supreme, a deathless poet-soul—
Careless of Lang's resentment, Gosse's spite,
Swinburne's small envy, Arnold's judgment trite,
Henley's weak scratch, or Pall Mall petty rage,
Or the dull Saturday's unlessoned page—
Such 'men in buckram' shall have blows enough,
And feel they too are 'penetrable stuff,'