And tell the puling scribblers of the town
I yet can hunt 'boomed' reputations down!
Yet spurn the rod a critic bids me kiss,
Nor care if clubs or cliques applaud or hiss,
And though I vanish into finer air
The spirit of my Muse is everywhere;
Let all the 'boomed' and 'booming' dunces know
Byron still lives—their dauntless, stubborn Foe!"
Enunciating the last two lines with tremendous emphasis, the noble Ghost folded up his scroll. I noticed that in the course of his reading he frequently repeated his former self, and borrowed largely from an already published world-famous Satire; and I ventured to say as much in a mild sotto voce.
"What does that matter?" he demanded angrily. "Do not the names of the New school of literary goslings fit into my lines as well as the Old?"