Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast Too bitter-is it not so?-in thy gloom Of passion?"--"Passion!" cried the phantom dim, "I loved my country, and I hated him. "What I have written, I have written: let The rest be on his head or mine!" so spoke Old "Nominis Umbra;" and while speaking yet, Away he melted in celestial smoke. Then Satan said to Michael, "Don't forget To call George Washington, and John Horne Tooke, And Franklin ; "--but at this time there But to the point; while hovering o'er the brink Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd), I saw a taper, far below me, wink, And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel No less on history than the Holy Bible. "The former is the devil's scripture, and The latter yours, good Michael: so the affair Belongs to all of us, you understand. I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, And brought him off for sentence out of hand: I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air At least a quarter it can hardly be: Here Satan said, "I know this man of old, And have expected him for some time here; A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, Or more conceited in his petty sphere: But surely it was not worth while to fold Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear: We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored With carriage) coming of his own accord. "But since he's here, let's see what he has done." "Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates The very business you are now upon, And scribbles as if head clerk to the Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation: The angels had of course enough of song When upon service; and the generation Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long Before, to profit by a new occasion: The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, "What! what! Pye come again? No more-no more of that!" The tumult grew; an universal cough Convulsed the skies, as during a de bate, When Castlereagh has been up long enough (Before he was first minister of state, I mean the slaves hear now); some cried "Off, off!" As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate, The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose (Himself an author) only for his prose. The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave; A good deal like a vulture in the face, With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 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. 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 Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, Into his lake, for there he did not drown; A different web being by the Destinies Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'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, like as an elf, Or wisp that fits o'er a morass: he lurks. It may be, still, like dull books on a "Life" shelf, In his own den, to scrawl some or "Vision," As Welborn says-" the devil turn'd precisian." The hope, the fear, the jealous care, But 'tis not thus--and 't is not here— nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, The sword, the banner, and the field, Awake! (not Greece--she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, Tread those reviving passions down, If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? Is here:-up to the field, and give Seek out-less often sought than found- At Missolonghi, January 22, 1834 October 29, 1824. |