268 Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, "What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis not a ghost?" "I know it," quoth the incubus; "but he Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. "Confound the renegado! I have sprain'd My left wing, he's so heavy; one would Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. But to the point; while hovering o'er Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still I saw a taper, far below me, wink, And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel No less on history than the Holy Bible. Belongs to all of us, you understand. I snatch'd him up just as you see him And brought him off for sentence out of I've scarcely been ten minutes in the At least a quarter it can hardly be: Here Satan said, old, And have expected him for some time A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, We had the poor wretch safe (without With carriage) coming of his own accord. "But since he's here, let's see what he has done." "Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he antici- The very business you are now upon, Fates. Who knows to what his ribaldry may But stuck fast with his first hexameter. Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be Into recitative, in great dismay array; And Michael rose ere he could get a word Of all his founder'd verses under way, And cried, "For God's sake stop, my friend! 'twere bestNon Di, non homines-you know the rest." A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 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 debate, 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. He said (I only give the heads)-he said, He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his way Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread, Of which he butter'd both sides; 'twould delav OH, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet twoand-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? "Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew be-sprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory! Oh, FAME!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 1 See the note on page 254. 272 The hope, the fear, the jealous care. But 'tis not thus--and 't is not here-- nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, The sword, the banner, and the field, Awake! (not Greece--she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, Tread those reviving passions down, If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? Seek out-less often sought than found- At Missolonghi, January 23, 1824 October 29, 1824. |
