Pat take your choice); and then it grew a cloud; Satan replied, 'To me the matter is
And so it was-a cloud of witnesses.

Et sich a cloud! No land ere saw a crowd
Of custs numerous as the heavens saw these:
They shadow'd with their myriads space; their
load

And varied cries were like those of wild geese
nations may be liken'd to a goose),
realized the phrase of 'hell broke loose.'

Indifferent, in a personal point of view :
I can have fifty better souls than this [through
With far less trouble than we have gone
Already; and I merely argued his

Late Majesty of Britain's case with you
Upon a point of form: you may dispose
Of him; I've kings enough below, God knows!'

LXV.

Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd 'multifaced'
By multo-scribbling Southey). Then we'll call
One or two persons of the myriads placed
Around our congress, and dispense with all
The rest,' quoth Michael: Who may be so
graced
[who shall
As to speak first? there's choice enough-
It be ?' Then Satan answer'd, 'There are

many:

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any.

LXVI.

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite
Upon the instant started from the throng,
Dress'd in a fashion now forgotten quite;

For all the fashions of the flesh stick long
By people in the next world; where unite
All the costumes since Adam's, right or
wrong,

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat,
Almost as scanty, of days less remote.

LXVII.

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds

Assembled, and exclaim'd, 'My friends of all The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds;

So let's to business: why this general call? If those are freeholders I see in shrouds,

And 'tis for an election that they bawl, Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat! Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?'

LXVIII.

'Sir,' replied Michael, 'you mistake; these things

Are of a former life, and what we do Above is more august; to judge of kings Is the tribunal met so now you know.' 'Then I presume those gentlemen with wings,' Said Wilkes, 'are cherubs; and that soul below [mind Looks much like George the Third, but to my A good deal older-Bless me! is he blind?'

LXIX.

He is what you behold him, and his doom
Depends upon his deeds, the Angel said.
'If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb
Gives licence to the humblest beggar's head
To lift itself against the loftiest.'-'Some,'

Said Wilkes, 'don't wait to see them laid in

lead

He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no
Persuasion on the part of devils, saints,
Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so
He read the first three lines of the contents;
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show
Had vanish'd, with variety of scents,

Of which he butter'd both sides: 'twould delay Too long the assembly (he was pleas'd to dread), And take up rather more time than a day, To name his works-he would but cite a few-Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang 'Wat Tyler,' 'Rhymes on Blenheim,' 'Water- Like lightning, off from his 'melodious twang t

loo.'

XCVII.

He had written praises of a regicide;

He had written praises of all kings whatever; He had written for republics far and wide,

And then against them bitterer than ever ; For pantisocracy he once had cried

Aloud-a scheme less moral than 'twas clever; Then grew a hearty anti-Jacobin- [skin. Had turn'd his coat-and would have turn'd his

XCVIII.

He had sung against all battles, and again
In their high praise and glory: he had call'd
Reviewing the ungentle craft, and then *

Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd-
Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men
By whom his muse and morals had been
maul'd:
[prose,
He had written much blank verse, and blanker
And more of both than anybody knows.

XCIX.

He had written Wesley's life :-here turning round

To Satan, 'Sir, I'm ready to write yours,

See Life of Henry Kirke White.

CIII.

Those grand heroics acted as a spell ;

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions :

The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell, The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own do minions

(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell,

And I leave every man to his own opinions);
Michael took refuge in his trump; but, lo,
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow!

CIV.

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known

For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys,
And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down;
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease,
Into his lake, for there he did not drown;
A different web being by the destinies
Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er
Reform shall happen either here or there.

Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolemean system, said ther had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he wond have spared the Maker some absurdities,'

See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeare 1 with a curious perfume and a most melodious tuang?" or wee the Antiquary, vol. i. p. 225.

THE 'good old times'—all times when old are
good-

Are gone; the present might be if they would;
Great things have been, and are, and greater still
Want little of mere mortals but their will:
A wider space, a greener field, is given

Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown
O'er which from empire she lured Anthony;
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown-
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear!
He wept for worlds to conquer-half the earth
Knows not his name, or but his death, and birth,

To those who play their 'tricks before high And desolation; while his native Greece

heaven.'

I know not if the angels weep, but men
Have wept enough-for what?-to weep again!

II.

All is exploded-be it good or bad.
Reader! remember when thou wert a lad,
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much,
His very rival almost deem'd him such.
We, we have seen the intellectual race
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face-
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free,
As the deep billows of the Ægean roar
Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore.
But where are they-the rivals! a few feet
Of sulien earth divide each winding-sheet.
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave,
Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave,
Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old
Of 'dust to dust; but half its tale untold:
Time tempers not its terrors-still the worm
Wind its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form,
Varied above, but still alike below;
The urn may shine the ashes will not glow,

A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten; it then
Bata, as most people know.

Hath all of desolation, save its peace.

Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare!
He wept for worlds to conquer !' he who ne'er
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown,
Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne.

III.

But where is he, the modern, mightier far,
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car;
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings,
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with
wings,

[late,

And spurn the dust o'er which they crawl'd of
Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state?
Yes! where is he, the champion and the child
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild;
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes
were thrones ;
[bones?
Whose table earth-whose dice were human
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle,
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile.
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage;
Smile to survey the queller of the nations
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations;
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines,
O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines;