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

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

was heard & cry for room, though not a phantom

stirr'd. At length with jostling, elbowing, and

the aid Of cherubim appointed to that post, The devil Asmodeus to the circle made His way, and look'd as if his journey

cost 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

think Some of his works about his neck were

chain'd. 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 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

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 antici

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

Fates. Who knows to what his ribaldry may

run, When such an ass as this, like Balaam's,

prates ?” “Let's hear," quoth Michael, “what he

has to say: You know we're bound to that in every

way." Now the bard, glad to get an audience,

which By no means often was his case below, Began to cough, and hawk, and hem,

and pitch His voice into that awful note of woe To all unhappy hearers within reach Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in

flow; But stuck fast with his first hexameter, Not one of all whose gouty feet would

stir. But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be

spurr'd Into recitative, in great dismay Both cherubim and seraphim were heard To murmur loudly through their long

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

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Wbich seem'd to hold all verse in detes

tation : 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 monaroli, mute till then, exclaim'd,

" What! what! Pye come again? No more-no more of

that!"

Too long the assembly (he was pleased

to dread), And take up rather more time than a

day, To name his works-he would but cite a

few-“Wat Tyler "--" Rhymes on Blen

heim"--" Waterloo."

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-JacobinHad turu'd his coat and would have

turn'd his skin.

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 heur now) ; some cried

"Off, off !" As at a farce; till, grown quite des

perate, 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 bawk's eye,

which gave A smurt 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 stilld

the noise With one still greater. as is yet the mode On earth besides ; except some grum

bling voice. Which now and then will make a slight

in road Upon decorous silence, few will twice Lift up their lungs when fairly over

crow'd ; And now the bard could plead his own

bad cause, With all the attitudes of self-applause.

He had sung against all battles, and

again In their high praise and glory; he had

call'd Reviewing the ungentle craft," and

thien Become as base a criticas e'er crawl'd Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men By whom his muse and morals had

been maul'd: He had written much blank verse, and

blanker prose, And more of both than anybody knows.

He had written Wesley's life : here

turning round To Satan, “ Sir, I'm ready to write

yours, In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, With notes and preface, all that most

allures The pivus purchaser ; and there's no

ground For fear, for I can choose my own re

viewers : So let me have the proper documents, That I may add you to my other saints." Satan bow'd, and was silent. Well,

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

if you,

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As it was once, but I would make you

shine Like your own trumpet. By the way,

my own Has more of brass in it, and is as well

blown.

“But talking about trumpets, here's my

Vision ! Now you shall judge, all people ; yes,

you shall Judge with my judgment, and by my

decision Be guided who shall enter heaven or

fall. I settle all these things by intuition, Times present, past, to come, heaven,

hell, and all, Like King Alfonso. When I thus see

double, I save the Deity some worlds of trouble."

Who sell like Phaëton, 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 bis

works, But soon rose to the surface--like him.

self ; 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

shelf, In his own den, to scrawl some “ Life"

or " Vision," As Welborn says—“the devil turn'd pre

cisian."

9

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, Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they

sprang, Like lightning, off from his “ melodious

twang.

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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 dominions(For 'tis not yet decided where they

dwell, And I leave every man to his opinions); Michael took refuge in his trump-but,

lo ! His teeth were set on edge, he could not

blow!

IMPROMPTUS1 STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times, Patron and publisher of rhymes, For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,

My Murray, To thee, with hope and terror dumb, The unfledged MS, authors come ; Thou printest all-and sellest some

My Murray. Upon thy table's baize so green The last new Quarterly is seen, But where is thy new Magazine,

My Murray?

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been

known For an impetuous saint, upraised his

keys, And at the fifth line knock'd the poet

down ;

1 From letters addressed to Mr. Murray, or to Thomas Moore.

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So we'll go no more a roving

So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.

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 two

and-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,

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.

February 28, 1817. 1830.

THE world is a bundle of hay,

Mankind are the asses who pull ; Each tugs it a different way, And the greatest of all is John Bull.

November 5, 1820. 1830.

1 See the note on page 254.

'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sound

ing phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear

one discover, She thought that I was not unworthy to

love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I

found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that

surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was

bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

November, 1821. 1830.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY

THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR

The hope, the fear, tlie jealous care.

The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus--and it 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, 1824 October 29, 1824.

Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move : Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are

gone ; The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanio isle ; No torch is kindled at its blaze-

A funeral pile.

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