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If to the Arab, as the Briton,
'Twas galling to be critic-bitten :-

The Devil to Peter wished no worse.


When Peter's next new book found vent,

The Devil to all the first Reviews
A copy of it slily sent,
With five-pound note as compliment,

And this short notice—“ Pray abuse.”

Then seriatim, month and quarter,

Appeared such mad tirades.-One said-
“ Peter seduced Mrs. Foy's daughter,
Then drowned the mother in Ullswater,

The last thing as he went to bed.”

Another—“Let him shave his head !

Where's Dr. Willis ?-Or is he joking ?
What does the rascal mean or hope,
No longer imitating Pope,

In that barbarian Shakespeare poking ?”

One more, “Is incest not enough?

And must there be adultery too? Grace after meat ? Miscreant and Liar! Thief! Blackguard ! Scoundrel ! Fool! Hell-fire

Is twenty times too good for you.

VI. “By that last book of yours we think

You've double damned yourself to scorn; We warned you whilst yet on the brink You stood. From your black name will shrink

The babe that is unborn.”

All these Reviews the Devil made

Up in a parcel, which he had
Safely to Peter's house conveyed.
For carriage, ten-pence Peter paid-

Untied them-read them-went half mad.

VIII. “ What !” cried he, “ this is my reward

For nights of thought, and days of toil ? Do poets, but to be abhorred, By men of whom they never heard,

Consume their spirits' oil ?

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“Or,” cried he, a grave look collecting,

“Is it my genius, like the moon, Sets those who stand her face inspecting, That face within their brain reflecting,

Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune ?”

For Peter did not know the town,

But thought, as country readers do, 1 Shelley instructed his publisher (see Shelley Me. morials, pp. 138-9) to read Betty for Emma as the name of Peter's sister. “Emma,” he says, “I recollect, is the real name of the sister of a great poet who might be mistaken for Peter.” Betty, being the name of Mrs. Foy, was not a fortunate name to substitute; and, when the poem was published in 1839, Mrs. Shelley gave the name as Emma.-ED.

For half a guinea or a crown,
He bought oblivion or renown

From God's own voice in a review.

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All Peter did on this occasion

Was, writing some sad stuff in prose.
It is a dangerous invasion
When poets criticize; their station

Is to delight, not pose.

The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair,

For Born's translation of Kant's book;
A world of words, tail foremost, where
Right-wrong-false-true—and foul-and

As in a lottery-wheel are shook..

Five thousand crammed octavo pages

Of German psychologics.---he
Who his furor verborum assuages
Thereon, deserves just seven months' wages
More than will e'er be due to me.

I looked on them nine several days,

And then I saw that they were bad;
A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise,-
He never read them ;— with amaze

I found Sir William Drummond had.

? Vox populi, vox dei. As Mr. Godwin truly observes of a more famous saying, of some merit as a popular maxim, but totally destitute of philosophical accuracy.


When the book came, the Devil sent

It to P. Verbovale,' Esquire,
With a brief note of compliment,
By that night's Carlisle mail. It went,

And set his soul on fire.

Fire, which ex luce præbens fumum, .

Made him beyond the bottom see
Of truth's clear well-when I and you Ma'am,
Go, as we shall do, subter humum,

We may know more than he.

Now Peter ran to seed in soul

Into a walking paradox;
For he was neither part nor whole,
Nor good, nor bad—nor knave nor fool,

--Among the woods and rocks.

Furious he rode, where late he ran,

Lashing and spurring his tame hobby;
Turned to a formal puritan,
A solemn and unsexual man,

He half believed White Obi.

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This steed in vision he would ride,

High trotting over nine-inch bridges, 1 Quasi, Qui valet verba :-i.e. all the words which have been, are, or may be expended by, for, against, with, or on him ;-a sufficient proof of the utility of this history. Peter's progenitor who selected this name seems to have possessed a pure anticipated cognition of the nature and modesty of this ornament of his posterity.

With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride,
Mocking and mowing by his side-
A mad-brained goblin for a guide-

Over corn-fields, gates, and hedges.

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After these ghastly rides, he came

Home to his heart, and found from thence Much stolen of its accustomed flame; His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and lame

Of their intelligence.

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To Peter's view, all seemed one hue ;

He was no whig, he was no tory;
No Deist and no Christian he;-
He got so subtle, that to be

Nothing, was all his glory.

XXIII. One single point in his belief

From his organization sprung, The heart-enrooted faith, the chief Ear in his doctrines' blighted sheaf,

That “ happiness is wrong;”

So thought Calvin and Dominic ;

So think their fierce successors, who
Even now would neither stint nor stick
Our flesh from off our bones to pick,

If they might“ do their do.”

xxv. His morals thus were undermined:

The old Peter--the hard, old Potter Was born anew within his mind;

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