The ghosts were all right till this grave-digger came
With the rheumatic style and the missioner’s frown.
Unpleasing, unpleasured, he lectures each shade:
Now they ought to be dead, but they will not lie down.
How the tall, genial spirits must laugh
When this pocket Disposer-Supreme volunteers
To drill and dismiss them, puts each in his place
And lays on the tombstone a wreath of pale sneers.
Which do we honour – a generous host,
Or maggots puffed up by the fare he provides them?
Ghosts whose bright presence has outlived the dawn,
Or this channering worm that officiously chides them?