페이지 이미지

To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave,
Was by no means so ugly as his case;

But that indeed was hopeless as can be,
Quite a poetic felony "de se."


Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise
With one still greater, as is yet the mode
On earth besides; except some grumbling voice,
Which now and then will make a slight inroad
Upon decorous silence, few will twice

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd;
And now the bard could plead his own bad cause,
With all the attitudes of self-applause.


He said-(I only give the heads)-he said,

He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his way Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread,

Of which he butter'd both sides; 'twould 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. '


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.


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.


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

See "Life of Henry Kirke White."

The pious purchaser; and there's no ground
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers :
So let me have the proper documents,

That I may add you to my other saints."


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 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."


He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no
Persuasion on the part of devils, or 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."+


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!


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,

Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolemean system, said, that, "had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have spared the Maker some absurdities."

+ See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeared "with a curious perfume and a most melodious twang;" or see the Antiquary, vol. i. p. 225.

Into his lake, for there he did not drown;

A different web being by the Destinies
Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whenc'er
Reform shall happen either here or there.


He first sank to the bottom-like his works,
But soon rose to the surface-like himself;
For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks,*
By their own rottenness, 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
As Welborn says-" the devil turn'd precisian."


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 further, 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.

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


A Mystery,



"And it came to pass.... that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose."

"And woman wailing for her demon lover."-Coleridge.

Dramatis Personæ.




[blocks in formation]

Chorus of Spirits of the Earth-Chorus of Mortals.


A woody and mountainous district near Mount Ararat.
Time, Midnight.


Anah. Our father sleeps: it is the hour when they
Who love us are accustom'd to descend

Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat :

How my heart beats!


Our invocation.


I tremble.


Let us proceed upon

But the stars are hidden.

So do I, but not with fear

My sister, though

Of aught save their delay.

I love Azaziel more than-oh, too much!

What was I going to say? my heart grows impious.
Aho. And where is the impiety of loving
Celestial natures?

I love our God less since
This cannot be of good;

But, Aholibamah,
His angel loved me :
and though I know not

That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears
Which are not ominous of right.


Then wed thee

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin!

There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long;
Marry, and bring forth dust!


I should have loved

Azaziel not less were he mortal; yet

I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him.
And when I think that his immortal wings
Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre

Of the poor child of clay which so adored him,
As he adores the Highest, death becomes
Less terrible: but yet I pity him;

His grief will be of ages, or at least

Mine would be such for him, were I the Seraph,
And he the perishable.

Rather say,

That he will single forth some other daughter
Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah.
Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved him,
Better thus than that he should weep for me.

Aho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love,
All Seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me.—
But to our invocation! "Tis the hour.



From thy sphere!

Whatever star contain thy glory;
In the eternal depths of heaven

Albeit thou watchest with "the seven,'
Though through space infinite and hoary
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven,
Yet hear!

Oh! think of her who holds thee dear!
And though she nothing is to thee,

Yet think that thou art all to her.

Thou canst not tell-and never be
Such pangs decreed to aught save me-
The bitterness of tears.

Eternity is in thine years,

Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes;
With me thou canst not sympathize,
Except in love, and there thou must
Acknowledge that more loving dust
Ne'er wept beneath the skies.

Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'st
The face of Him who made thee great,
As He hath made me of the least

Of those cast out from Eden's gate :
Yet, Seraph dear!

Oh hear !

*The archangels, said to be seven in number, and to occupy the eighth rank in the celestial hierarchy.-B.

« 이전계속 »