With his broad palm;-'twixt love and fear,
He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer,
And in his dream sate down.

XVI.

The Devil was no uncommon creature;
A leaden-witted thief-just huddled
Out of the dross and scum of nature;
A toad-like lump of limb and feature,

With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled.

XVII.

He was that heavy, dull, cold thing,
The spirit of evil well may be:
A drone too base to have a sting;
Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing,
And calls lust, luxury.

XVIII.

Now he was quite the kind of wight
Round whom collect, at a fixed æra,

Venison, turtle, hock, and claret,

Good cheer-and those who come to share it— And best East Indian madeira!

XIX.

It was his fancy to invite

Men of science, wit, and learning,
Who came to lend each other light;
He proudly thought that his gold's might
Had set those spirits burning.

XX.

And men of learning, science, wit,
Considered him as you and I

Think of some rotten tree, and sit

Lounging and dining under it,
Exposed to the wide sky.

XXI.

And all the while, with loose fat smile, The willing wretch sate winking there, Believing 'twas his power that made That jovial scene-and that all paid Homage to his unnoticed chair.

XXII.

Though to be sure this place was Hell; He was the Devil-and all theyWhat though the claret circled well, And wit, like ocean, rose and fell ?Were damned eternally.

PART THE FIFTH.

GRACE.

I.

AMONG the guests who often stayed
Till the Devil's petits-soupers,
A man there came, fair as a maid,
And Peter noted what he said,
Standing behind his master's chair.

II.

He was a mighty poet-and

A subtle-souled psychologist;

All things he seemed to understand,
Of old or new- -of sea or land-

But his own mind-which was a mist.

III.

This was a man who might have turned Hell into Heaven-and so in gladness

A Heaven unto himself have earned;
But he in shadows undiscerned

Trusted,—and damned himself to madness.

IV.

He spoke of poetry, and how

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Divine it was a light—a love—

A spirit which like wind doth blow

As it listeth, to and fro;

A dew rained down from God above;

V.

"A power which comes and goes like dream, And which none can ever trace

Heaven's light on earth-Truth's brightest beam."

And when he ceased there lay the gleam
Of those words upon his face.

VI.

Now Peter, when he heard such talk,
Would, heedless of a broken pate,
Stand like a man asleep, or baulk
Some wishing guest of knife or fork,
Or drop and break his master's plate.

VII.

At night he oft would start and wake
Like a lover, and began

In a wild measure songs to make
On moor, and glen, and rocky lake,
And on the heart of man-

VIII.

And on the universal sky

And the wide earth's bosom green,

And the sweet, strange mystery

Of what beyond these things may lie,
And yet remain unseen.

IX.

For in his thought he visited

The spots in which, ere dead and damned, He his wayward life had led;

Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed, Which thus his fancy crammed.

X.

And these obscure remembrances
Stirred such harmony in Peter,
That whensoever he should please,
He could speak of rocks and trees
In poetic metre.

XI.

For though it was without a sense
Of memory, yet he remembered well
Many a ditch and quick-set fence;
Of lakes he had intelligence,

He knew something of heath, and fell.

XII.

He had also dim recollections

Of pedlars tramping on their rounds; Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections Of saws, and proverbs; and reflexions Old parsons make in burying-grounds.

XIII.

But Peter's verse was clear, and came
Announcing from the frozen hearth
Of a cold age, that none might tame
The soul of that diviner flame

It augured to the Earth:

XIV.

Like gentle rains, on the dry plains,
Making that green which late was grey,
Or like the sudden moon, that stains
Some gloomy chamber's window panes
With a broad light like day.

XV.

For language was in Peter's hand,
Like clay, while he was yet a potter;
And he made songs for all the land,
Sweet both to feel and understand,
As pipkins late to mountain Cotter.

Gave twenty pounds for some; then scorning A footman's yellow coat to wear,

Peter, too proud of heart, I fear,

Instantly gave the Devil warning.

XVII.

Whereat the Devil took offence,

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And swore in his soul a great oath then,

That for his damned impertinence,

He'd bring him to a proper sense

Of what was due to gentlemen!"

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PART THE SIXTH.

DAMNATION.

I.

O THAT mine enemy had written

A book!"-cried Job:- -a fearful curse,