Before, to profit by a new occasion; | |
735 | The monarch, mute till then, exclaim’d, ‘What! what! |
Pye | |
XCIII | |
The tumult grew; an universal cough | |
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, | |
When Castlereagh has been up long enough | |
740 | (Before he was first minister of state, |
I mean — the | |
As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate, | |
The bard Saint Peter pray’d to interpose | |
(Himself an author) only for his prose. | |
XCIV | |
745 | The varlet was not an ill-favour’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, | |
750 | Was by no means so ugly as his case; |
But that indeed was hopeless as can be, | |
Quite a poetic felony ‘ | |
XCV | |
Then Michael blew his trump, and still’d the noise | |
With one still greater, as is yet the mode | |
755 | 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, | |
760 | With all the attitudes of self-applause. |
XCVI | |
He said – (I only give the heads) – he said, | |
He meant no harm in scribbling; ’twas his way | |
Upon all topics; ’twas, besides, his bread, | |
Of which he butter’d both sides; ’twould delay | |
765 | Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), |
And take up rather more time than a day, | |
To name his works – he would but cite a few – | |
‘Wat Tyler’ — ‘Rhymes on Blenheim’ — ‘Waterloo.’ | |
XCVII | |
He had written praises of a regicide; | |
770 | He had written praises of all kings whatever; |
He had written for republics far and wide, | |
And then against them bitterer than ever: | |
For pantisocracy he once had cried | |
Aloud, a scheme less moral than ’twas clever; | |
775 | Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin – |
Had turn’d his coat – and would have turn’d his skin. | |
XCVIII | |
He had sung against all battles, and again | |
In their high praise and glory; he had call’d | |
Reviewing | |
780 | Become as base a critic as e’er crawl’d — |
Fed, paid, and pamper’d by the very men | |
By whom his muse and morals has been maul’d: | |
He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, | |
And more of both than any body knows. | |
XCIX | |
785 | He had written Wesley’s life: – here turning round |
To Satan, ‘Sir, I’ m ready to write yours, | |
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, | |
With notes and preface, all that most allures | |
The pious purchaser; and there’s no ground | |
790 | For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers: |
So let me have the proper documents, | |
That I may add you to my other saints.’ | |
C | |
Satan bow’d, and was silent. ‘Well, if you, | |
With amiable modesty, decline | |
795 | 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 | |
As it was once, but I would make you shine | |
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own | |
800 | Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. |
CI | |
‘But talking about trumpets, here’s my Vision! | |
Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall | |
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision | |
Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. | |
805 | I settle all these things by intuition, |
Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, | |
Like King Alfonso. | |
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.’ | |
CII | |
He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no | |
810 | Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, |
Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so | |
He read the first three lines of the contents; | |
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show | |
Had vanish’d, with variety of scents, | |
815 | Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, |
Like lightning, off from his ‘melodious twang.’ | |
CIII | |
Those grand heroics acted as a spell; | |
The angels stopp’d their ears and plied their pinions; | |
The devils ran howling, deafen’d, down to hell; | |
820 | The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions – |
(For ’tis not yet decided where they dwell, | |
And I leave every man to his opinions); | |
Michael took refuge in his trump – but, lo! | |
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow! | |
CIV | |
825 | Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known |
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, | |
And at the fifth line knock’d the poet down; | |
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, | |
Into his lake, for there he did not drown; | |
830 | A different web being by the Destinies |
Woven for the Laureate’s final wreath, whene’er | |
Reform shall happen either here or there. | |
CV | |
He first sank to the bottom — like his works, | |
But soon rose to the surface – like himself; | |
835 | For all corrupted things are buoy’d like corks, |
By their own rottenness, light as an elf, | |
Or wisp that flits o’er a morass: he lurks, | |
It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, | |
In his own den, to scrawl some ‘Life’ or ‘Vision,’ | |
840 | As Welborn says – ‘the devil turn’d precisian.’ |
CVI | |
As for the rest, to come to the conclusion | |
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone | |
Which kept my optics free from all delusion, | |
And show’d me what I in my turn have shown; | |
845 | All I saw farther, in the last confusion, |
Was, that King George slipp’d into heaven for one; | |
And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, | |
I left him practising the hundredth psalm. | |
On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year | |
Missolonghi | |
I | |
’Tis time this heart should be unmoved, | |
Since others it hath ceased to move: | |
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, | |
Still let me love! | |
II | |
5 | My days are in the yellow leaf; |
The flowers and fruits of love are gone; | |
The worm, the canker, and the grief | |
Are mine alone! | |
III | |
The fire that on my bosom preys | |
10 | Is lone as some volcanic isle; |
No torch is kindled at its blaze – | |
A funeral pile! | |
IV | |
The hope, the fear, the jealous care, | |
The exalted portion of the pain | |
15 | And power of love, I cannot share, |
But wear the chain. | |
V | |
But ’tis not | |
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor | |
Where glory decks the hero’s bier, | |
20 | Or binds his brow. |
VI | |
The sword, the banner, and the field, | |
Glory and Greece, around me see! | |
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, | |
Was not more free. | |
VII | |
25 | Awake! (not Greece – she |
Awake, my spirit! Think through | |
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, | |
And then strike home! | |
VIII | |
Tread those reviving passions down, |