Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou

wast

Too bitter-is it not so?-in thy gloom Of passion?"--"Passion!" cried the phantom dim,

"I loved my country, and I hated him.

"What I have written, I have written: let

The rest be on his head or mine!" so spoke

Old "Nominis Umbra;" and while speaking yet,

Away he melted in celestial smoke. Then Satan said to Michael, "Don't forget

To call George Washington, and John Horne Tooke,

And Franklin ; "--but at this time there

[blocks in formation]

But to the point; while hovering o'er the brink

Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd),

I saw a taper, far below me, wink, And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel

No less on history than the Holy Bible. "The former is the devil's scripture, and The latter yours, good Michael: so the affair

Belongs to all of us, you understand.

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there,

And brought him off for sentence out of hand:

I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air

At least a quarter it can hardly be:
I dare say that his wife is still at tea."

Here Satan said, "I know this man of old,

And have expected him for some time here;

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, Or more conceited in his petty sphere: But surely it was not worth while to fold Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear:

We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored

With carriage) coming of his own accord. "But since he's here, let's see what he has done."

"Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates

The very business you are now upon, And scribbles as if head clerk to the

[blocks in formation]

Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation:

The angels had of course enough of song When upon service; and the generation Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long

Before, to profit by a new occasion: The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, "What! what!

Pye come again? No more-no more of that!"

The tumult grew; an universal cough Convulsed the skies, as during a de

bate,

When Castlereagh has been up long enough

(Before he was first minister of state, I mean the slaves hear now); some cried "Off, off!"

As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate,

The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose (Himself an author) only for his prose.

The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave;

A good deal like a vulture in the face, With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace

To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave,

Was by no means so ugly as his case; But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be, Quite a poetic felony "de se."

Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise

With one still greater, as is yet the mode On earth besides; except some grumbling voice,

Which now and then will make a slight inroad

Upon decorous silence, few will twice Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd;

And now the bard could plead his own bad cause.

With all the attitudes of self-applause.

[blocks in formation]
[merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

if you, With amiable modesty, decline My offer, what says Michael? There are few

Whose memoirs could be render'd

more divine.

Mine is a pen of all work; not so new

[blocks in formation]

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.

He first sank to the bottom-like his works,

But soon rose to the surface-like himself;

For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks,

By their own rottenness, like as an elf, Or wisp that fits o'er a morass: he lurks.

It may be, still, like dull books on a "Life"

shelf,

In his own den, to scrawl some or "Vision,"

As Welborn says-" the devil turn'd precisian."

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus--and 't is not here—
Such thoughts should shake my soul,

nor now,

Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece--she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be,

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honorable death

Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground
And take thy rest.

At Missolonghi, January 22, 1834

October 29, 1824.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »