Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By IrvingBrowne

633 At Shakespeare’s Grave

DISMISS your apprehension, pseudo bard,

For no one wishes to disturb these stones,

Nor cares if here or in the outer yard

They stow your impudent, deceitful bones.

Your foolish-colored bust upon the wall,

With its preposterous expanse of brow,

Shall rival Humpty Dumpty’s famous fall,

And cheats no cultured Boston people now.

Steal deer, hold horses, act your third-rate parts,

Hoard money, booze, neglect Anne Hathaway,—

You can’t deceive us with your stolen arts;

Like many a worthier dog, you’ve had your day.

I have expresst your history in a cyfer,

I ’ve done your sum for all ensuing time,

I don’t know what you longer wish to lie for

Beneath these stones or in your doggerel rhyme.

Get up and flit, or plunge into the river,

Or walk the chancel with a ghostly squeak,

You were an ignorant and evil liver,

Who could not spell, nor write, nor read much Greek.

Tho’ you enslaved the ages by your spell,

And Fame has blown no reputation louder,

Your cake is dough, for I by sifting well

Have quite reduced your dust to Bacon-powder.