"Pray find some cure or sinecure; To feed from the superfluous taxes, A friend of ours-a poet-fewer Have fluttered tamer to the lure
Than he." His lordship stands and racks his
Stupid brains, while one might count As many beads as he had boroughs,— At length replies; from his mean front, Like one who rubs out an account, Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows:
"It happens fortunately, dear Sir, I can. I hope I need require No pledge from you, that he will stir In our affairs;—like Oliver,
That he'll be worthy of his hire."
These words exchanged, the news sent off To Peter, home the Devil hied,— Took to his bed; he had no cough, No doctor,-meat and drink enough,- Yet that same night he died.
The Devil's corpse was leaded down; His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf, Mourning-coaches, many a one, Followed his hearse along the town:- Where was the devil himself?
When Peter heard of his promotion, His eyes grew like two stars for bliss: There was a bow of sleek devotion, Engendering in his back; each motion Seemed a Lord's shoe to kiss.
He hired a house, bought plate, and made A genteel drive up to his door,
With sifted gravel neatly laid,—
As if defying all who said,
Peter was ever poor.
But a disease soon struck into
The very life and soul of PeterHe walked about-slept-had the hue Of health upon his cheeks-and few Dug better-none a heartier eater.
And yet a strange and horrid curse Clung upon Peter, night and day, Month after month the thing grew worse, And deadlier than in this my verse, I can find strength to say.
Peter was dull-he was at first Dull-O, so dull-so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed— Still with this dulness was he cursed- Dull-beyond all conception—dull.
No one could read his books—no mortal, But a few natural friends, would hear him; The parson came not near his portal; His state was like that of the immortal
Described by Swift-no man could bear hi
His sister, wife, and children yawned, With a long, slow, and drear ennui, All human patience far beyond;
Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned, Anywhere else to be.
But in his verse, and in his prose, The essence of his dulness was Concentred and compressed so close, 'Twould have made Guatimozin dose On his red gridiron of brass.
A printer's boy, folding those pages, Fell slumbrously upon one side; Like those famed seven who slept three ages. To wakeful frenzy's vigil rages,
As opiates, were the same applied.
Even the Reviewers who were hired To do the work of his reviewing, With adamantine nerves, grew tired;— Gaping and torpid they retired,
To dream of what they should be doing.
And worse and worse, the drowsy curse Yawned in him, till it grew a pest- A wide contagious atmosphere, Creeping like cold through all things near; A power to infect and to infest.
His servant-maids and dogs grew dull; His kitten, late a sportive elf, The woods and lakes so beautiful, Of dim stupidity were full,
The earth under his feet-the springs, Which lived within it a quick life, The air, the winds of many wings, That fan it with new murmurings, Were dead to their harmonious strife.
The birds and beasts within the wood, The insects, and each creeping thing, Were now a silent multitude;
Love's work was left unwrought-no brood Near Peter's house took wing.
And every neighbouring cottager Stupidly yawned upon the other: No jack-ass brayed; no little cur
Cocked up his ears;-no man would stir To save a dying mother.
Yet all from that charmed district went
But some half-idiot and half-knave, Who rather than pay any rent, Would live with marvellous content, Over his father's grave.
No bailiff dared within that space, For fear of the dull charm, to enter;
A man would bear upon his face, For fifteen months in any case, The yawn of such a venture.
Seven miles above-below-around- This pest of dulness holds its sway; A ghastly life without a sound; To Peter's soul the spell is bound-- How should it ever pass away?
A SENSITIVE Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night.
And the Spring arose on the garden fair, And the Spirit of Love fell everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
But none ever trembled and panted with bliss
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness,
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant.
The snowdrop, and then the violet,
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,
And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness.
And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green ;
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