George Gordon Byron – To Ianthe

Not in those climes where I have late been straying,

Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,

Not in those visions to the heart displaying

Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,

Hath aught like thee in Truth or Fancy seemed:

Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beamed—

To such as see thee not my words were weak;

To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art,

Nor unbeseem the promise of thy Spring—

As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,

Love's image upon earth without his wing,

And guileless beyond Hope's imagining!

And surely she who now so fondly rears

Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,

Beholds the Rainbow of her future years,

Before whose heavenly hues all Sorrow disappears.

Young Peri of the West! — 'tis well for me

My years already doubly number thine;

My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,

And safely view thy ripening beauties shine;

Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline;

Happier, that, while all younger hearts shall bleed,

Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign

To those whose admiration shall succeed,

But mixed with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's,

Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,

Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,

Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny

That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh

Could I to thee be ever more than friend:

This much, dear Maid, accord; nor question why

To one so young my strain I would commend,

But bid me with my wreath one matchless Lily blend.

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;

And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast

On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined

Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:

My days once numbered — should this homage past

Attract thy fairy fingers near the Lyre

Of him who hailed thee loveliest, as thou wast—

Such is the most my Memory may desire;

Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?

George Gordon Byron – Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Canto the First)

I

Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,

Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!

Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,

Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:

Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill;

Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,

Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;

Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine

To grace so plain a tale -- this lowly lay of mine.

                II

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,     10

Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;

But spent his days in riot most uncouth,

And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.

Oh, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,

Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;

Few earthly things found favour in his sight

Save concubines and carnal companie,

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

                III

Childe Harold was he hight: -- but whence his name

And lineage long, it suits me not to say;       20

Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,

And had been glorious in another day;

But one sad losel soils a name for aye,

However mighty in the olden time;

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,

Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,

Can blazon evil deeds or consecrate a crime.

                IV

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun,

Disporting there like any other fly,

Nor deem'd before his little day was done     30

One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by.

Worse than adversity the Childe befell;

He felt the fulness of satiety:

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,

Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

                V

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,

Nor made atonement when he did amiss,

Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one,

And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.     40

Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss

Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;

Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,

And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste,

Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste.

                VI

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,

And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;

'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,

But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee;

Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,      50

And from his native land resolv'd to go,

And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe,

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

                VII

The Childe departed from his father's hall:

It was a vast and venerable pile;

So old, it seemed only not to fall,

Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle.

Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!

Where Superstition once had made her den    60

Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;

And monks might deem their time was come agen,

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

                VIII

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood

Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,

As if the memory of some deadly feud

Or disappointed passion lurk'd below:

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

For his was not that open, artless soul

That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,    70

Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

                IX

And none did love him -- though to hall and bower

He gather'd revellers from far and near,

He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour;

The heartless parasites of present cheer.

Yea! none did love him -- not his lemans dear --

But pomp and power alone are woman's care,

And where these are light Eros finds a feere;

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,    80

And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.

                X

Childe Harold had a mother -- not forgot,

Though parting from that mother he did shun;

A sister whom he loved, but saw her not

Before his weary pilgrimage begun:

If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.

Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel:

Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon

A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.   90

                XI

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,

The laughing dames in whom he did delight,

Whose large blue eyes, fair locks and snowy hands,

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,

And long had fed his youthful appetite:

His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,

And all that mote to luxury invite,

Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line.

                XII

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew,   100

As glad to waft him from his native home;

And fast the white rocks faded from his view,

And soon were lost in circumambient foam:

And then, it may be, of his wish to roam

Repented he, but in his bosom slept

The silent thought, nor from his lips did come

One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept,

And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept.

                XIII

But when the sun was sinking in the sea

He seized his harp, which he at times could string,   110

And strike, albeit with untaught melody,

When deem'd he no strange ear was listening:

And now his fingers o'er it he did fling,

And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight.

While flew the vessel on her snowy wing,

And fleeting shores receded from his sight,

Thus to the elements he pour'd his last 'Good Night.`

                1

'Adieu, adieu! my native shore

  Fades o'er the waters blue;

The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,    120

  And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea

  We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

  My native Land -- Good Night!

                2

'A few short hours and He will rise

  To give the morrow birth;

And I shall hail the main and skies,

  But not my mother earth.

Deserted is my own good hall,      130

  Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;

  My dog howls at the gate.

                3

'Come hither, hither, my little page!

  Why dost thou weep and wail?

Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,

  Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

  Our ship is swift and strong:

Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly     140

  More merrily along.`

                4

'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

  I fear not wave nor wind;

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

  Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,

  A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save these alone,

  But thee -- and one above.

                5

'My father bless'd me fervently,            150

  Yet did not much complain;

But sorely will my mother sigh

  Till I come back again.'

'Enough, enough, my little lad!

  Such tears become thine eye;

If I they guileless bosom had,

  Mine own would not be dry.

                6

'Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

  Why dost thou look so pale?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman?     160

  Or shiver at the gale?'

'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

  Sir Childe, I'm not so weak:

But thinking on an absent wife

  Will blanch a faithful cheek.

                7

My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

  Along the bordering lake,

And when they on their father call,

  What answer shall she make?'

'Enough, enough, my yeoman good,            170

  Thy grief let none gainsay;

But I, who am of lighter mood,

  Will laugh to flee away.

                8

'For who would trust the seeming sighs

  Of wife or paramour?

Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes

  We late saw streaming o'er.

For pleasures past I do not grieve

  Nor perils gathering near;

My greatest grief is that I leave     180

  No thing that claims a tear.

                9

'And now I'm in the world alone,

  Upon the wide, wide sea:

But why should I for others groan,

  When none will sigh for me?

Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

  Till fed by stranger hands;

But long ere I come back again

  He'd tear me where he stands.

                10

'With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go     190

  Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

  So not again to mine.

Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!

  And when you fail my sight,

Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

My native Land -- Good Night!'

                XIV

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone,

And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay.

Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon,    200

New shores descried make every bosom gay;

And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way,

And Tagus dashing onward to the deep,

His fabled golden tribute bent to pay;

And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap,

And steer `twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap.

                XV

Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see

What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!

What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree!

What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand!    210

But man would mar them with an impious hand:

And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge

`Gainst those who most transgress his high command.

With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge

Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge.

                XVI

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold!

Her image floating on the noble tide,

Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold,

But now whereon a thousand keels did ride

Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied,    220

And to the Lusians did her aid afford:

A nation swoln with ignorance and pride,

Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword

To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing lord.

                XVII

But whoso entereth within this town,

That, sheening far, celestial seems to be,

Disconsolate will wander up and down,

'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee.

For hut and palace show like filthily:

The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt;     230

Ne personage of high or mean degree

Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt,

Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, unwash'd, unhurt.

                XVIII

Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest scenes --

Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men?

Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes

In variegated maze of mount and glen.

Ah, me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen,

To follow half on which the eye dilates

Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken    240

Than those whereof such things the bard relates,

Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Elysium's gates?

                XIX

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd,

The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep,

The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd,

The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep,

The tender azure of the unruffled deep,

The orange tints that gild the greenest bough,

The torrents that from cliff to valley leap,

The vine on high, the willow branch below,    250

Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow.

                XX

Then slowly climb the many-winding way,

And frequent turn to linger as you go,

From loftier rocks new loveliness survey,

And rest at `Our Lady's house of woe';

Where frugal monks their little relics show,

And sundry legends to the stranger tell:

Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo!

Deep in yon cave Honorious long did dwell,

In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.    260

                XXI

And here and there, as up the crags you spring,

Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path:

Yet deem not these devotion's offering --

These are memorials frail of murderous wrath:

For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath

Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife,

Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath;

And grove and glen with thousand such are rife

Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life.

                XXII

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath,    270

Are domes where whilome kings did make repair:

But now the wild flowers round them only breathe;

Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there.

And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair:

There thou too, Vathek! England's wealthiest son,

Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware

When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done,

Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun.

                XXIII

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan,

Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow;    280

But now, as if a thing unblest by man,

Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou!

Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow

To halls deserted, portals gaping wide;

Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how

Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied;

Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide!

                XXIV

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened!

Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye!

With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend,    290

A little fiend that scoffs incessantly,

There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by

His side is hung a seal and sable scroll,

Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry,

And sundry signatures adorn the roll,

Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with all his soul.

                XXV

Convention is the dwarfish demon styled

That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome:

Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled,

And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom.    300

Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume,

And Policy regain'd what arms had lost:

For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom!

Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host,

Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast!

                XXVI

And ever since that martial synod met,

Britannia sickens, Cintra! at thy name;

And folks in office at the mention fret,

And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame.

How will posterity the deed proclaim!     310

Will not our own and fellow nations sneer,

To view these champions cheated of their fame,

By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here,

Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year?

                XXVII

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he

Did take his way in solitary guise:

Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee,

More restless than the swallow in the skies:

Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize,

For Meditation fix'd at times on him;     320

And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise

His early youth, misspent in maddest whim;

But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim.

                XXVIII

To horse! to horse! he quits, for ever quits

A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul:

Again he rouses from his moping fits,

But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl.

Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal

Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage;

And o'er him many changing scenes must roll    330

Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage,

Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage.

                XXIX

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay,

Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen;

And church and court did mingle their array,

And mass and revel were alternate seen;

Lordlings and freres  --  ill-sorted fry I wean!

But here the Babylonian whore hath built

A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen,

That men forget the blood which she hath spilt,    340

And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt.

                XXX

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills,

(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race!)

Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills

Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant place.

Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,

And marvel men should quit their easy chair,

The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace,

Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air,

And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share.   350

                XXXI

More bleak to view the hills at length recede,

And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend;

Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed!

Far as the eye discerns, withouten end,

Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend

Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows --

Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend:

For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes,

And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's woes.

                XXXII

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet,     360

Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?

Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet,

Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?

Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride?

Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? --

Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide,

Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall,

Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul:

                XXXIII

But these between a silver streamlet glides,

And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook,    370

Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides,

Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,

And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,

That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow;

For proud each peasant as the noblest duke:

Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know

'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.

                XXXIV

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd,

Dark Guadiana rolls his power along,

In sullen billows, murmuring and vast,     380

So noted ancient roundelays among.

Whilome upon his banks did legions throng

Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest:

Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong;

The Paynim turban and the Christian crest

Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd.

                XXXV

Oh, lovely Spain! renown'd, romantic land!

Where is that standard which Pelagio bore,

When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band

That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore?   390

Where are those bloody banners which of yore

Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale,

And drove at last the spoilers to their shore?

Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent pale,

While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail.

                XXXVI

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale?

Ah! such, alas! the hero's amplest fate!

When granite moulders and when records fail,

A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date.

Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate.   400

See how the Mighty shrink into a song!

Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great?

Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue,

When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong?

                XXXVII

Awake, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance!

Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries;

But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,

Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:

Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,

And speaks, in thunder through yon engine's roar:   410

In every peal she calls -- 'Awake! arise!'

Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,

When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?

                XXXVIII

Hark! -- heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?

Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?

Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote;

Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath

Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? -- the fires of death,

The bale-fires flash on high: -- from rock to rock

Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe;   420

Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

                XXXIX

Lo! where the Giant on the mountains stands,

His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,

With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,

And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;

Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon

Flashing afar, -- and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;

For on this morn three potent nations meet,    430

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

                XL

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see

(For one who hath no friends, no brother there)

Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery,

Their various arms that glitter in the air!

What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,

And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!

All join the chase, but few the triumph share;

The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,

And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array.   440

                XLI

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;

Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;

The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!

The foe, the victim, and the fond ally

That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,

Are met -- as if at home they could not die --

To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,

And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

                XLII

There shall they rot -- Ambition's honour'd fools!   450

Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay!

Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools,

The broken tools, that tyrants cast away

By myriads, when they dare to pave their way

With human hearts -- to what? -- a dream alone.

Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?

Or call with truth one span of earth their own,

Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

                XLIII

Oh, Albuera! glorious field of grief!

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed,   460

Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief,

A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed!

Peace to the perish'd! may the warrior's meed

And tears of triumph their reward prolong!

Till others fall where other chieftains lead,

Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng,

And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song.

                XLIV

Enough of Battle's minions! let them play

Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame:

Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay,    470

Though thousands fall to deck some single name.

In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim

Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's good,

And die, that living might have proved her shame;

Perish'd perchance, in some domestic feud,

Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued.

                XLV

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way

Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued:

Yet is she free -- the spoiler's wish'd-for prey!

Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude,    480

Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude.

Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive

Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood

Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive,

And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.

                XLVI

But all unconscious of the coming doom,

The feast, the song, the revel here abounds;

Strange modes of merriment the hours consume,

Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds:

Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck sounds;   490

Here Folly still his votaries enthralls;

And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds:

Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals,

Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls.

  XLVII

Not so the rustic -- with his trembling mate

He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar,

Lest he should view his vineyard desolate,

Blasted below the dun hot breath of war.

No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star

Fandango twirls his jocund castanet:     500

Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye mar,

Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret;

The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet!

                XLVIII

How carols now the lusty muleteer?

Of love, romance, devotion is his lay,

As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer,

His quick bells wildly jingling on the way?

No! as he speeds, he chants 'Viva el Rey!'

And checks his song to execrate Godoy,

The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day    510

When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy,

And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy.

                XLIX

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd

With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest,

Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground;

And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest

Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest:

Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host,

Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest;

Still does he mark it with triumphant boast,    520

And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and lost.

                L

And whomsoe'er along the path you meet

Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,

Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet:

Woe to the man that walks in public view

Without of loyalty this token true:

Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke;

And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue,

If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke,

Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke.  530

                LI

At every turn Morena's dusky height,

Sustains aloft the battery's iron load;

And, far as mortal eye can compass sight,

The mountain-howitzer, the broken road,

The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd,

The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch,

The magazine in rocky durance stow'd,

The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch,

The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match,

                LII

Portend the deeds to come: -- but he whose nod    540

Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway,

A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod;

A little moment deigneth to delay:

Soon will his legions sweep through these their way;

The West must own the Scourger of the world.

Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning-day,

When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurl'd,

And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd.

                LIII

And must they fall? the young, the proud, the brave,

To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign?    550

No step between submission and a grave?

The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain?

And doth the Power that man adores ordain

Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal?

Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain?

And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal,

The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel?

                LIV

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused,

Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar,

And, all unsex'd, the Anlace hath espoused,    560

Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war?

And she, whom once the semblance of a scar

Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread,

Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar,

The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead

Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread.

                LV

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,

Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,

Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,

Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower,    570

Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power,

Her fairy form, with more than female grace,

Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower

Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face,

Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chase.

                LVI

Her lover sinks -  she sheds no ill-timed tear;

Her chief is slain -- she fills his fatal post;

Her fellows flee -- she checks their base career;

The foe retires -- she heads the sallying host:

Who can appease like her a lover's ghost?    580

Who can avenge so well a leader's fall?

What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost?

Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul,

Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall?

                LVII

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons,

But form'd for all the witching arts of love:

Though thus in arms they emulate her sons,

And in the horrid phalanx dare to move,

'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove,

Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate:    590

In softness as in firmness far above

Remoter females, famed for sickening prate;

Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as great.

                LVIII

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd

Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch:

Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest,

Bid man be valiant ere he merit such:

Her glance how wildly beautiful! how much

Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek,

Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch!   600

Who round the North for paler dames would seek?

How poor their forms appear! how languid, wan, and weak!

                LIX

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to laud;

Match me, ye harams of the land! where now

I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud

Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow;

Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow

To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind,

With Spain's dark-glancing daughters -- deign to know,

There your wise Prophet's paradise we find,    610

His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind.

                LX

Oh, thou Parnassus! whom I now survey,

Not in the phrenzy of a dreamer's eye,

Not in the fabled landscape of a lay,

But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky.

In the wild pomp of mountain majesty!

What marvel if I thus essay to sing?

The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by

Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string,

Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wing.  620

                LXI

Oft have I dream'd of Thee! whose glorious name

Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore:

And now I view thee, 'tis, alas! with shame

That I in feeblest accents must adore.

When I recount thy worshippers of yore

I tremble, and can only bend the knee;

Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar,

But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy

In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee!

                LXII

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been,    630

Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot,

Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene,

Which others rave of, though they know it not?

Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot,

And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave,

Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot,

Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave,

And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave.

                LXIII

Of thee hereafter. -- Ev'n amidst my strain

I turn'd aside to pay my homage here;     640

Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain;

Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear;

And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear.

Now to my theme -- but from thy holy haunt

Let me some remnant, some memorial bear;

Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant,

Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt.

                LXIV

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount! when Greece was young,

See round thy giant base a brighter choir,

Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung    650

The Pythian hymn, with more than mortal fire,

Behold a train more fitting to inspire

The song of love than Andalusia's maids,

Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire:

Ah! that to these were given such peaceful shades

As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades.

                LXV

Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast

Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days;

But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast,

Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise.    660

Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!

While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape

The fascination of thy magic gaze?

A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape,

And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape.

                LXVI

When Paphos fell by time -- accursed Time!

The Queen who conquers all must yield to thee --

The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime;

And Venus, constant to her native sea,

To nought else constant, hither deign'd to flee;   670

And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white;

Though not to one dome circumscribeth she

Her worship, but, devoted to her rite,

A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing bright.

                LXVII

From morn till night, from night till startled Morn

Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew,

The song is heard, the rosy garland worn;

Devices quaint, and frolics ever new,

Tread on each other's kibes.  A long adieu

He bids to sober joy that here sojourns;    680

Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu

Of true devotion monkish incense burns,

And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns.

                LXVIII

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest;

What hallows it upon this Christian shore?

Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast;

Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar?

Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore

Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn;

The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more;    690

Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,    

Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn.

                LXIX

The seventh day this; the jubilee of man.

London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer:

Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan,

And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:

Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,

And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl;

To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair;

Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,    700

Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.

                LXX

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair,

Others along the safer turnpike fly;

Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware,

And many to the steep of Highgate hie.

Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why?

'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,

Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery,

In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn,

And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.  710

                LXXI

All have their fooleries -- not alike are thine,

Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea!

Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,

Thy saint-adorers count the rosary:

Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free

(Well do I ween the only virgin there)

From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be;

Then to the crowded circus forth they fare:

Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share.

                LXXII

The lists are op'd, the spacious area clear'd,    720

Thousands on thousands piled are seated round;

Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard,

Ne vacant space for lated wight is found:

Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound,

Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye,

Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound:

None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die,

As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery.

                LXXIII

Hush'd is the din of tongues -- on gallant steeds,

With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-pois'd lance,  730

Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,

And lowly bending to the lists advance;

Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:

If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,

The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,

Best prize of better acts, they bear away,

And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.

                LXXIV

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd,

But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore,

Stands in the centre, eager to invade     740

The lord of lowing herds; but not before

The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er,

Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:

His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more

Can man achieve without the friendly steed --

Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.

                LXXV

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,

The den expands, and Expectation mute

Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.

Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,   750

And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,

The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:

Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit

His first attack, wide waving to and fro

His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

                LXXVI

Sudden he stops: his eye is fix'd: away,

Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear:

Now is thy time, to perish, or display

The skill that yet may check his mad career.

With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;   760

On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;

Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:

He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes;

Dart follows dart; lance, lance, loud bellowings speak his woes.

                LXXVII

Again he comes; not dart nor lance avail,

Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;

Though man and man's avenging arms assail,

Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.

One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse;

Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears,    770

His glory chest unveils life's panting source;

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;

Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears.

                LXXVIII

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,

Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,

Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,

And foes disabled in the brutal fray:

And now the Matadores around him play,

Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:

Once more through all he bursts his thundering way --   780

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,

Wraps his fierce eye -- 'tis past -- he sinks upon the sand!

                LXXIX

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,

Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.

He stops -- he starts -- disdaining to decline:

Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,

Without a groan, without a struggle dies.

The decorated car appears -- on high

The corse is piled -- sweet sight for vulgar eyes --

Four steeds that spurn the rein as swift as shy,   790

Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.

                LXXX

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites

The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain.

Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights

In vengeance, gloating on another's pain.

What private feuds the troubled village stain!

Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe,

Enough, alas! in humble homes remain,

To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow,

For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow. 800

                LXXXI

But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,

His wither'd sentinel, Duenna sage!

And all whereat the generous soul revolts,

Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage,

Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age.

Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen,

(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage.)

With braided tresses bounding o'er the green,

While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen?

                LXXXII

Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved,    810

Or dream'd he loved, since Rapture is a dream;

But now his wayward bosom was unmoved,

For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream;

And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem

Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:

How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem,

Full from the mount of Joy's delicious springs

Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

                LXXXIII

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,

Though now it moved him as it moves the wise;    820

Not that Philosophy on such a mind

E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes:

But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;

And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,

Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:

Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom

Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.

                LXXXIV

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;

But view'd them not with misanthropic hate:

Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song;   830

But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate?

Nought that he saw his sadness could abate:

Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway,

And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate,

Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay,

To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.

  To Inez

                    1

     Nay, smile not at my sullen brow;

       Alas! I cannot smile again:

     Yet Heaven avert that ever thou

       Should weep, and haply weep in vain.    840

                    2

     And dost thou ask, what secret woe

       I bear, corroding joy and youth?

     And wilt thou vainly seek to know

       A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe?

                    3

     It is not love, it is not hate,

       Nor low Ambition's honours lost,

     That bids me loathe my present state,

       And fly from all I prized the most:

                    4

     It is that weariness which springs,

       From all I meet, or hear, or see:    850

     To me no pleasure Beauty brings;

       Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.

                    5

     It is that settled, ceaseless gloom

       The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore;

     That will not look beyond the tomb,

       But cannot hope for rest before.

                    6

     What Exile from himself can flee?

       To zones, though more and more remote,

     Still, still pursues, where'er I be,

       The blight of life -- the demon Thought.    860

                    7

     Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

       And taste of all that I forsake;

     Oh! may they still of transport dream,

       And ne'er, at least like me, awake!

                    8

     Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,

       With many a retrospection curst;

     And all my solace is to know,

       Whate'er betides, I've known the worst.

                    9

     What is that worst? Nay, do not ask --

       In pity from the search forbear:     870

     Smile on -- nor venture to unmask

       Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.'

                LXXXV

Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu!

Who may forget how well thy walls have stood?

When all were changing thou alone wert true,

First to be free and last to be subdued

And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude,

Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye:

A traitor only fell beneath the feud:

Here all were noble, save Nobility;     880

None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry!

                LXXXVI

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!

They fight for freedom who were never free;

A Kingless people for a nerveless state,

Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,

True to the veriest slaves of Treachery:

Fond of a land which gave them nought but life,

Pride points the path that leads to Liberty;

Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,

War, war is still the cry, 'War even to the knife!'   890

                LXXXVII

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know

Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife:

Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe

Can act, is acting there against man's life:

From flashing scimitar to secret knife,

War mouldeth there each weapon to his need --

So may he guard the sister and the wife, 

So may he make each curst oppressor bleed,

So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!

                LXXXVIII

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?    900

Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain;

Look on the hands with female slaughter red;

Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,

Then to the vulture let each corse remain;

Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,

Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain,

Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe:

Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!

                LXXXIX

Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done;

Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees:     910

It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,

Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees.

Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees

More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd:

Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease

Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd,

While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrain'd.

                XC

Not all the blood at Talavera shed,

Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,

Not Albuera lavish of the dead,      920

Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.

When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?

When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?

How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,

Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,

And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil!

                XCI

And thou, my friend! -- since unavailing woe

Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain --

Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,

Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain:    930

But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain,

By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,

And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,

While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest!

What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest?

                XCII

Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most!

Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!

Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,

In dreams deny me not to see thee here!

And Morn in secret shall renew the tear     940

Of Consciousness awaking to her woes,

And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier,

Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,

And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose.

                XCIII

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage:

Ye who of him may further seek to know,

Shall find some tidings in a future page,

If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.

Is this too much? stern Critic! say not so:

Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld    950

In other lands, where he was doom'd to go:

Lands that contain the monuments of Eld,

Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd.

George Gordon Byron – Stanzas for Music

There be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charmed ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep;

Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee,

To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

George Gordon Byron – Lachin Y Gair

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses!

In you let the minions of luxury rove;

Restore me to the rocks, where the snowflake reposes,

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:

Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war;

Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered;

My cap was teh bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;

On chieftains long perished my memory pondered,

As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade;

I sought not my home till the day's dying glory

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;

For fancy was cheered by traditional story,

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.

Rouch Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,

Winter presides in his cold icy car:

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

"Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"

Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,

Victory crowned not your fall with applause:

Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar;

The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,

Years must elapse ere I tread you again:

Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.

England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar:

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!

The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.

George Gordon Byron – The Vision Of Judgment

I

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,

So little trouble had been given of late;

Not that the place by any means was full,

But since the Gallic era 'eight-eight'

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,

And 'a pull altogether,' as they say

At sea — which drew most souls another way.

II

The angels all were singing out of tune,

And hoarse with having little else to do,

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,

Or curb a runaway young star or two,

Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon

Broke out of bounds o'er th' ethereal blue,

Splitting some planet with its playful tail,

As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

III

The guardian seraphs had retired on high,

Finding their charges past all care below;

Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky

Save the recording angel's black bureau;

Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply

With such rapidity of vice and woe,

That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,

And yet was in arrear of human ills.

IV

His business so augmented of late years,

That he was forced, against his will no doubt,

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)

For some resource to turn himself about,

And claim the help of his celestial peers,

To aid him ere he should be quite worn out

By the increased demand for his remarks:

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

V

This was a handsome board — at least for heaven;

And yet they had even then enough to do,

So many conqueror's cars were daily driven,

So many kingdoms fitted up anew;

Each day too slew its thousands six or seven,

Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,

They threw their pens down in divine disgust —

The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.

VI

This by the way: 'tis not mine to record

What angels shrink Wrom: ZAAFXISHJEXXIMQZUIVO

On this occasion his own work abhorr'd,

So surfeited with the infernal revel:

Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword,

It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil.

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion —

'Tis, that he has both generals in reveration.)

VII

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace,

Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont,

And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease,

With nothing but new names subscribed upon't;

'Twill one day finish: meantime they increase,

'With seven heads and ten horns,' and all in front,

Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born

Less formidable in the head than horn.

VIII

In the first year of freedom's second dawn

Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn

Left him nor mental nor external sun:

A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,

A worse king never left a realm undone!

He died — but left his subjects still behind,

One half as mad — and t'other no less blind.

IX

He died! his death made no great stir on earth:

His burial made some pomp; there was profusion

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth

Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion.

For these things may be bought at their true worth;

Of elegy there was the due infusion —

Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,

Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

X

Form'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all

The fools who flack's to swell or see the show,

Who cared about the corpse? The funeral

Made the attraction, and the black the woe.

There throbbed not there a thought which pierced the pall;

And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,

It seamed the mockery of hell to fold

The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

XI

So mix his body with the dust! It might

Return to what it must far sooner, were

The natural compound left alone to fight

Its way back into earth, and fire, and air;

But the unnatural balsams merely blight

What nature made him at his birth, as bare

As the mere million's base unmarried clay —

Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

XII

He's dead — and upper earth with him has done;

He's buried; save the undertaker's bill,

Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone

For him, unless he left a German will:

But where's the proctor who will ask his son?

In whom his qualities are reigning still,

Except that household virtue, most uncommon,

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

XIII

'God save the king!' It is a large economy

In God to save the like; but if he will

Be saving, all the better; for not one am I

Of those who think damnation better still:

I hardly know too if not quite alone am I

In this small hope of bettering future ill

By circumscribing, with some slight restriction,

The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction.

XIV

I know this is unpopular; I know

'Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damned

For hoping no one else may ever be so;

I know my catechism; I know we're caromed

With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow;

I know that all save England's church have shamm'd,

And that the other twice two hundred churches

And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase.

XV

God help us all! God help me too! I am,

God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish,

And not a whit more difficult to damn,

Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish,

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;

Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish,

As one day will be that immortal fry

Of almost everybody born to die.

XVI

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,

And nodded o'er his keys; when, lo! there came

A wondrous noise he had not heard of late —

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame;

In short, a roar of things extremely great,

Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim;

But he, with first a start and then a wink,

Said, 'There's another star gone out, I think!'

XVII

But ere he could return to his repose,

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes —

At which St. Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his hose:

'Saint porter,' said the angel, 'prithee rise!'

Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows

An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes;

To which the saint replied, 'Well, what's the matter?

'Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?'

XVIII

'No,' quoth the cherub; 'George the Third is dead.'

'And who is George the Third?' replied the apostle;

'What George? what Third?' 'The king of England,' said

The angel. 'Well, he won't find kings to jostle

Him on his way; but does he wear his head?

Because the last we saw here had a tussle,

And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces,

Had he not flung his head in all our faces.

XIX

'He was, if I remember, king of France;

That head of his, which could not keep a crown

On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance

A claim to those of martyrs — like my own:

If I had had my sword, as I had once

When I cut ears off, I had cut him down;

But having but my keys, and not my brand,

I only knock'd his head from out his hand.

XX

'And then he set up such a headless howl,

That all the saints came out and took him in;

And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl;

That fellow Paul— the parvenù! The skin

Of St. Bartholomew, which makes his cowl

In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin,

So as to make a martyr, never sped

Better than did this weak and wooden head.

XXI

'But had it come up here upon its shoulders,

There would have been a different tale to tell;

The fellow-feeling in the saint's beholders

Seems to have acted on them like a spell,

And so this very foolish head heaven solders

Back on its trunk: it may be very well,

And seems the custom here to overthrow

Whatever has been wisely done below.'

XXII

The angel answer'd, 'Peter! do not pout:

The king who comes has head and all entire,

And never knew much what it was about —

He did as doth the puppet — by its wire,

And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt:

My business and your own is not to inquire

Into such matters, but to mind our cue —

Which is to act as we are bid to do.'

XXIII

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,

Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,

Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan

Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,

Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man

With an old soul, and both extremely blind,

Halted before the gate, and in his shroud

Seated their fellow traveller on a cloud.

XXIV

But bringing up the rear of this bright host

A Spirit of a different aspect waves

His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;

His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss'd;

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved

Eternal wrath on his immortal face,

And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space.

XXV

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate

Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin,

With such a glance of supernatural hate,

As made Saint Peter wish himself within;

He potter'd with his keys at a great rate,

And sweated through his apostolic skin:

Of course his perspiration was but ichor,

Or some such other spiritual liquor.

XXIV

The very cherubs huddled all together,

Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt

A tingling to the top of every feather,

And form'd a circle like Orion's belt

Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither

His guards had led him, though they gently dealt

With royal manes (for by many stories,

And true, we learn the angels all are Tories.)

XXVII

As things were in this posture, the gate flew

Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges

Flung over space an universal hue

Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges

Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new

Aurora borealis spread its fringes

O'er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound,

By Captain Parry's crew, in 'Melville's Sound.'

XXVIII

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming

A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light,

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming

Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight:

My poor comparisons must needs be teeming

With earthly likenesses, for here the night

Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving

Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving.

XXIX

'Twas the archangel Michael; all men know

The make of angels and archangels, since

There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show,

From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince;

There also are some altar-pieces, though

I really can't say that they much evince

One's inner notions of immortal spirits;

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits.

XXX

Michael flew forth in glory and in good;

A goodly work of him from whom all glory

And good arise; the portal past — he stood;

Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary —

(I say young, begging to be understood

By looks, not years; and should be very sorry

To state, they were not older than St. Peter,

But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter.

XXXI

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before

That arch-angelic Hierarch, the first

Of essences angelical, who wore

The aspect of a god; but this ne'er nursed

Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core

No thought, save for his Master's service, durst

Intrude, however glorified and high;

He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.

XXXII

He and the sombre, silent Spirit met —

They knew each other both for good and ill;

Such was their power, that neither could forget

His former friend and future foe; but still

There was a high, immortal, proud regret

In either's eye, as if 'twere less their will

Than destiny to make the eternal years

Their date of war, and their 'champ clos' the spheres.

XXXIII

But here they were in neutral space: we know

From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so;

And that the 'sons of God', like those of clay,

Must keep him company; and we might show

From the same book, in how polite a way

The dialogue is held between the Powers

Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours.

XXXIV

And this is not a theologic tract,

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic,

If Job be allegory or a fact,

But a true narrative; and thus I pick

From out the whole but such and such an act

As sets aside the slightest thought of trick.

'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion,

And accurate as any other vision.

XXXV

The spirits were in neutral space, before

The gates of heaven; like eastern thresholds is

The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er,

And souls despatch'd to that world or to this;

And therefore Michael and the other wore

A civil aspect: though they did not kiss,

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness.

XXXVI

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau,

But with a graceful Oriental bend,

Pressing one radiant arm just where below

The heart in good men is supposed to tend;

He turn'd as to an equal, not too low,

But kindly; Satan met his ancient friend

With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian

Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian.

XXXVII

He merely bent his diabolic brow

An instant; and then raising it, he stood

In act to assert his right or wrong, and show

Cause why King George by no means could or should

Make out a case to be exempt from woe

Eternal, more than other kings, endued

With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions,

Who long have 'paved hell with their good intentions.'

XXXVIII

Michael began: 'What wouldst thou with this man,

Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill

Hath he wrought since his mortal race began,

That thou cans't claim him? Speak! and do thy will,

If it be just: if in this earthly span

He hath been greatly failing to fulfil

His duties as a king and mortal, say,

And he is thine; if not, let him have way.'

XXXIX

'Michael!' replied the Prince of Air, 'even here,

Before the Gate of him thou servest, must

I claim my subject: and will make appear

That as he was my worshipper in dust,

So shall he be in spirit, although dear

To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust

Were of his weaknesses; yet on the throne

He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone.

XL

'Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was,

Once, more thy master's: but I triumph not

In this poor planet's conquest; nor, alas!

Need he thou servest envy me my lot:

With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass

In worship round him, he may have forgot

Yon weak creation of such paltry things;

I think few worth damnation save their kings, —

XLI

'And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to

Assert my right as lord: and even had

I such an inclination, 'twere (as you

Well know) superfluous; they are grown so bad,

That hell has nothing better left to do

Than leave them to themselves: so much more mad

And evil by their own internal curse,

Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse.

XLII

'Look to the earth, I said, and say again:

When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign,

The world and he both wore a different form,

And must of earth and all the watery plain

Of ocean call'd him king: through many a storm

His isles had floated on the abyss of time;

For the rough virtues chose them for their clime.

XLIII

'He came to his sceptre young: he leaves it old:

Look to the state in which he found his realm,

And left it; and his annals too behold,

How to a minion first he gave the helm;

How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold,

The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm

The meanest of hearts; and for the rest, but glance

Thine eye along America and France.

XLIV

'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last

(I have the workmen safe); but as a tool

So let him be consumed. From out the past

Of ages, since mankind have known the rule

Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd

Of sin and slaughter — from the Cæsar's school,

Take the worst pupil; and produce a reign

More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the slain.

XLV

'He ever warr'd with freedom and the free:

Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes,

So that they utter'd the word "Liberty!"

Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose

History was ever stain'd as his will be

With national and individual woes?

I grant his household abstinence; I grant

His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want;

XLVI

'I know he was a constant consort; own

He was a decent sire, and middling lord.

All this is much, and most upon a throne;

As temperance, if at Apicius' board,

Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown.

I grant him all the kindest can accord;

And this was well for him, but not for those

Millions who found him what oppression chose.

XLVII

'The New World shook him off; the Old yet groans

Beneath what he and his prepared, if not

Completed: he leaves heirs on many thrones

To all his vices, without what begot

Compassion for him — his tame virtues; drones

Who sleep, or despots who have not forgot

A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake

Upon the thrones of earth; but let them quake!

XLVIII

'Five millions of the primitive, who hold

The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored

A part of that vast all they held of old, —

Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord,

Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter! Cold

Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd

The foe to Catholic participation

In all the license of a Christian nation.

XLIX

'True! he allow'd them to pray God; but as

A consequence of prayer, refused the law

Which would have placed them upon the same base

With those who did not hold the saints in awe.'

But here Saint Peter started from his place,

And cried, 'You may the prisoner withdraw:

Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph,

While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself!

L

'Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange

My office (and his no sinecure)

Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure!'

'Saint!' replied Satan, 'you do well to avenge

The wrongs he made your satellites endure;

And if to this exchange you should be given,

I'll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven!'

LI

Here Michael interposed: 'Good saint! and devil!

Pray, not so fast; you both outrun discretion.

Saint Peter! you were wont to be more civil!

Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression,

And condescension to the vulgar's level:

Event saints sometimes forget themselves in session.

Have you got more to say?' — 'No.' — If you please

I'll trouble you to call your witnesses.'

LII

Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand,

Which stirr'd with its electric qualities

Clouds farther off than we can understand,

Although we find him sometimes in our skies;

Infernal thunder shook both sea and land

In all the planets, and hell's batteries

Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions

As one of Satan's most sublime inventions.

LIII

This was a signal unto such damn'd souls

As have the privilege of their damnation

Extended far beyond the mere controls

Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station

Is theirs particularly in the rolls

Of hell assign'd; but where their inclination

Or business carries them in search of game,

They may range freely — being damn'd the same.

LIV

They're proud of this — as very well they may,

It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key

Stuck in their loins; or like to an 'entré'

Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry.

I borrow my comparisons from clay,

Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be

Offended with such base low likenesses;

We know their posts are nobler far than these.

LV

When the great signal ran from heaven to hell —

About ten million times the distance reckon'd

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell

How much time it takes up, even to a second,

For every ray that travels to dispel

The fogs of London, through which, dimly beacon'd,

The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year,

If that the summer is not too severe;

LVI

I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute;

I know the solar beams take up more time

Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it;

But then their telegraph is less sublime,

And if they ran a race, they would not win it

'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime.

The sun takes up some years for every ray

To reach its goal — the devil not half a day.

LVII

Upon the verge of space, about the size

Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd

(I've seen a something like it in the skies

In the Ægean, ere a squall); it near'd,

And growing bigger, took another guise;

Like an aërial ship it tack'd, and steer'd,

Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the grammar

Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer; —

LVIII

But take your choice): and then it grew a cloud;

And so it was — a cloud of witnesses.

But such a cloud! No land e'er saw a crowd

Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these;

They shadow'd with their myriads space; their loud

And varied cries were like those of wild geese

(If nations may be liken'd to a goose),

And realised the phrase of 'hell broke loose.'

LIX

Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bull,

Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore:

There Paddy brogued, 'By Jasus!' — 'What's your wull?'

The temperate Scot exclaim'd: the French ghost swore

In certain terms I shan't translate in full,

As the first coachman will; and 'midst the roar,

The voice of Jonathan was heard to express,

'Our president is going to war, I guess.'

LX

Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane;

In short, an universal shoal of shades,

From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain,

Of all climes and professions, years and trades,

Ready to swear against the good king's reign,

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades:

All summon'd by this grand 'subpoena,' to

Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you.

LXI

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale,

As angels can; next, like Italian twilight,

He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail,

Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale,

Or distant lightning on the horizon by night,

Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue.

LXII

Then he address'd himself to Satan: 'Why —

My good old friend, for such I deem you, though

Our different parties make us fight so shy,

I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe;

Our difference is political, and I

Trust that, whatever may occur below,

You know my great respect for you; and this

Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss —

LXIII

'Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse

My call for witnesses? I did not mean

That you should half of earth and hell produce;

'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean

True testimonies are enough: we lose

Our time, nay, our eternity, between

The accusation and defence: if we

Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality.'

LXIV

Satan replied, 'To me the matter is

Indifferent, in a personal point of view;

I can have fifty better souls than this

With far less trouble than we have gone through

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

As to speak first? there's choice enough — who shall

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

Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind

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

Give 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,

For such a liberty — and I, for one,

Have told them what I though beneath the sun.'

LXX

'Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast

To urge against him,' said the Archangel. 'Why,'

Replied the spirit, 'since old scores are past,

Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I.

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last,

With all his Lords and Commons: in the sky

I don't like ripping up old stories, since

His conduct was but natural in a prince.

LXXI

'Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress

A poor unlucky devil without a shilling;

But then I blame the man himself much less

Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling

To see him punish'd here for their excess,

Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in

Their place below: for me, I have forgiven,

And vote his "habeas corpus" into heaven.'

LXXII

'Wilkes,' said the Devil, 'I understand all this;

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died,

And seem to think it would not be amiss

To grow a whole one on the other side

Of Charon's ferry; you forget that his

Reign is concluded; whatso'er betide,

He won't be sovereign more: you've lost your labor,

For at the best he will be but your neighbour.

LXXIII

'However, I knew what to think of it,

When I beheld you in your jesting way,

Flitting and whispering round about the spit

Where Belial, upon duty for the day,

With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt,

His pupil; I knew what to think, I say:

That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills;

I'll have him gagg'd — 'twas one of his own bills.

LXXIV

'Call Junius!' From the crowd a shadow stalk'd,

And at the same there was a general squeeze,

So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd

In comfort, at their own aërial ease,

But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'd,

As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees,

Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder,

Or like a human colic, which is sadder.

LXXV

The shadow came — a tall, thin, grey-hair'd figure,

That look'd as it had been a shade on earth;

Quick in it motions, with an air of vigour,

But nought to mar its breeding or its birth;

Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger,

With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth;

But as you gazed upon its features, they

Changed every instant — to what, none could say.

LXXVI

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less

Could they distinguish whose the features were;

The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess;

They varied like a dream — now here, now there;

And several people swore from out the press

They knew him perfectly; and one could swear

He was his father: upon which another

Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother:

LXXVII

Another, that he was a duke, or a knight,

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest,

A nabob, a man-midwife; but the wight

Mysterious changed his countenance at least

As oft as they their minds; though in full sight

He stood, the puzzle only was increased;

The man was a phantasmagoria in

Himself — he was so volatile and thin.

LXXVIII

The moment that you had pronounce him one,

Presto! his face change'd and he was another;

And when that change was hardly well put on,

It varied, till I don't think his own mother

(If that he had a mother) would her son

Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other;

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task,

At this epistolary 'Iron Mask.'

LXXIX

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem —

'Three gentlemen at once' (as sagely says

Good Mrs. Malaprop); then you might deem

That he was not even one; now many rays

Were flashing round him; and now a thick steam

Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days:

Now Burke, now Tooke he grew to people's fancies,

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis.

LXXX

I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own;

I never let it out till now, for fear

Of doing people harm about the throne,

And injuring some minister or peer,

On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown;

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear!

'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call

Was really, truly, nobody at all.

LXXXI

I don't see wherefore letters should not be

Written without hands, since we daily view

Them written without heads; and books, we see,

Are fill'd as well without the latter too:

And really till we fix on somebody

For certain sure to claim them as his due,

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother

The world to say if there be mouth or author.

LXXXII

'And who and what art thou?' the Archangel said.

'For that you may consult my title-page,'

Replied this mighty shadow of a shade:

'If I have kept my secret half an age,

I scarce shall tell it now.' — 'Canst thou upbraid,'

Continued Michael, 'George Rex, or allege

Aught further?' Junius answer'd, 'You had better

First ask him for his answer to my letter:

LXXXIII

'My charges upon record will outlast

The brass of both his epitaph and tomb.'

'Repent'st thou not,' said Michael, 'of some past

Exaggeration? something which may doom

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.

LXXXIV

'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 was heard

A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd.

LXXXV

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.

LXXXVI

'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 libel —

No less on history than the Holy Bible.

LXXXVII

'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.'

LXXXVIII

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.

LXXXIX

'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 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.'

XC

Now the bard, glad to get an audience which

By no means oft 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.

XCI

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 best —

Non Di, non homines —- you know the rest.'

XCII

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!'

XCIII

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.

XCIV

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

A good deal like a vulture in the face,

With a hook nose and a hawk'd 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.'

XCV

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.

XCVI

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 delay

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 Blenheim' — 'Waterloo.'

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 —

Had turn'd his coat — and would have turn'd his skin.

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:

He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose,

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,

In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,

With notes and preface, all that most allures

The pious purchaser; and there's no ground

For fear, for I can choose my own reviews:

So let me have the proper documents,

That I may add you to my other saints.'

C

Satan bow'd, and was silent. 'Well, 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

As it once was, 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.

CI

'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.'

CII

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.' 

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 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!

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.

CV

He first sank to the bottom - like his works,

But soon rose to the surface — like himself;

For all corrupted things are bouy'd like corks,(4)

By their own rottenness, light as an elf,

Or wisp that flits 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 precisian.'

CVI

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion

Of this true dream, the telescope is gone

Which kept my optics free from all delusion,

And show'd me what I in my turn have shown;

All I saw farther, in the last confusion,

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one;

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,

I left him practising the hundredth psalm.