And all the while, with loose fat smile, Though to be sure this place was Hell PART THE FIFTH. GRACE. AMONG the guests who often staia He was a mighty poet-and A subtle-souled psychologist; But his own mind-which was a mist. This was a man who might have turned Trusted, and damned himself to madness. He spoke of poetry, and how "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. "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. Now Peter, when he heard such talk, At night he oft would start and wake In a wild measure songs to make And on the universal sky And the wide earth's bosom green,— And the sweet, strange mystery Of what beyond these things may lie, For in his thought he visited The spots in which, ere dead and damned, Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed And these obscure remembrances For though it was without a sense Of lakes he had intelligence, He knew something of heath, and fell. He had also dim recollections Of peddlers tramping on their rounds; Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections Of saws, and proverbs; and reflections Old parsons make in burying-grounds. But Peter's verse was clear, and came Like gentle rains, on the dry plains, For language was in Peter's hand, 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. Whereat the Devil took offence, 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!"— PART THE SIXTH. DAMNATION. "O THAT mine enemy had written A book!"-cried Job:-a fearful curse; 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, A copy of it slyly sent, With five-pound note as compliment, Then seriatim, month and quarter, Another "Let him shave his head! In that barbarian Shakspeare poking?" One more, "Is incest not enough? "By that last book of yours we think You've double damned yourself to scorn; We warned you whilst yet on the brink All these Reviews the Devil made "What!" cried he, "this is my reward By men of whom they never heard, "What have I done to them ?-and who I've half a mind to fight a duel. "Or," cried he, a grave look collecting, For Peter did not know the town, For half a guinea or a crown, He bought oblivion or renown From God's own voice* in a review. 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. 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. |