Our motley pride and boast,—
Shall they profane that sacred spot?"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.
"Oh, no! they tread that other path
Which leads where torments roll,
And worms—yes, bookworms—vent their wrath
Upon the guilty soul,
Untouched of bibliomaniac grace,
That saveth such as we,
They wallow in that dreadful place,"