Three random poems from PoetryDB
O! for this dark terrestrial ball
Forsakes his azure-paved hall
A prince of heav'nly birth!
Divine Humanity behold,
What wonders rise, what charms unfold
At his descent to earth!
II.
The bosoms of the great and good
With wonder and delight he view'd,
And fix'd his empire there:
Him, close compressing to his breast,
The sire of gods and men address'd,
"My son, my heav'nly fair!
III.
"Descend to earth, there place thy throne;
"To succour man's afflicted son
"Each human heart inspire:
"To act in bounties unconfin'd
"Enlarge the close contracted mind,
"And fill it with thy fire."
IV.
Quick as the word, with swift career
He wings his course from star to star,
And leaves the bright abode.
The Virtue did his charms impart;
Their G——! then thy raptur'd heart
Perceiv'd the rushing God:
V.
For when thy pitying eye did see
The languid muse in low degree,
Then, then at thy desire
Descended the celestial nine;
O'er me methought they deign'd to shine,
And deign'd to string my lyre.
VI.
Can Afric's muse forgetful prove?
Or can such friendship fail to move
A tender human heart?
Immortal Friendship laurel-crown'd
The smiling Graces all surround
With ev'ry heav'nly Art.
Is it a party in a parlour, Crammed just as they on earth were crammed, Some sipping punch--some sipping tea; But, as you by their faces see, All silent, and all--damned! "Peter Bell", by W. WORDSWORTH. OPHELIA.--What means this, my lord? HAMLET.--Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief. SHAKESPEARE. MICHING MALLECHO. PROLOGUE. Peter Bells, one, two and three, O'er the wide world wandering be.-- First, the antenatal Peter, Wrapped in weeds of the same metre, The so-long-predestined raiment Clothed in which to walk his way meant The second Peter; whose ambition Is to link the proposition, As the mean of two extremes-- (This was learned from Aldric's themes) Shielding from the guilt of schism The orthodoxal syllogism; The First Peter--he who was Like the shadow in the glass Of the second, yet unripe, His substantial antitype.-- Then came Peter Bell the Second, Who henceforward must be reckoned The body of a double soul, And that portion of the whole Without which the rest would seem Ends of a disjointed dream.-- And the Third is he who has O'er the grave been forced to pass To the other side, which is,-- Go and try else,--just like this. Peter Bell the First was Peter Smugger, milder, softer, neater, Like the soul before it is Born from THAT world into THIS. The next Peter Bell was he, Predevote, like you and me, To good or evil as may come; His was the severer doom,-- For he was an evil Cotter, And a polygamic Potter. And the last is Peter Bell, Damned since our first parents fell, Damned eternally to Hell-- Surely he deserves it well! PART 1. DEATH. And Peter Bell, when he had been With fresh-imported Hell-fire warmed, Grew serious--from his dress and mien 'Twas very plainly to be seen Peter was quite reformed. His eyes turned up, his mouth turned down; His accent caught a nasal twang; He oiled his hair; there might be heard The grace of God in every word Which Peter said or sang. But Peter now grew old, and had An ill no doctor could unravel: His torments almost drove him mad;-- Some said it was a fever bad-- Some swore it was the gravel. His holy friends then came about, And with long preaching and persuasion Convinced the patient that, without The smallest shadow of a doubt, He was predestined to damnation. They said--'Thy name is Peter Bell; Thy skin is of a brimstone hue; Alive or dead--ay, sick or well-- The one God made to rhyme with hell; The other, I think, rhymes with you. Then Peter set up such a yell!-- The nurse, who with some water gruel Was climbing up the stairs, as well As her old legs could climb them--fell, And broke them both--the fall was cruel. The Parson from the casement lept Into the lake of Windermere-- And many an eel--though no adept In God's right reason for it--kept Gnawing his kidneys half a year. And all the rest rushed through the door And tumbled over one another, And broke their skulls.--Upon the floor Meanwhile sat Peter Bell, and swore, And cursed his father and his mother; And raved of God, and sin, and death, Blaspheming like an infidel; And said, that with his clenched teeth He'd seize the earth from underneath, And drag it with him down to hell. As he was speaking came a spasm, And wrenched his gnashing teeth asunder; Like one who sees a strange phantasm He lay,--there was a silent chasm Between his upper jaw and under. And yellow death lay on his face; And a fixed smile that was not human Told, as I understand the case, That he was gone to the wrong place:-- I heard all this from the old woman. Then there came down from Langdale Pike A cloud, with lightning, wind and hail; It swept over the mountains like An ocean,--and I heard it strike The woods and crags of Grasmere vale. And I saw the black storm come Nearer, minute after minute; Its thunder made the cataracts dumb; With hiss, and clash, and hollow hum, It neared as if the Devil was in it. The Devil WAS in it:--he had bought Peter for half-a-crown; and when The storm which bore him vanished, nought That in the house that storm had caught Was ever seen again. The gaping neighbours came next day-- They found all vanished from the shore: The Bible, whence he used to pray, Half scorched under a hen-coop lay; Smashed glass--and nothing more! PART 2. THE DEVIL. The Devil, I safely can aver, Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting; Nor is he, as some sages swear, A spirit, neither here nor there, In nothing--yet in everything. He is--what we are; for sometimes The Devil is a gentleman; At others a bard bartering rhymes For sack; a statesman spinning crimes; A swindler, living as he can; A thief, who cometh in the night, With whole boots and net pantaloons, Like some one whom it were not right To mention;--or the luckless wight From whom he steals nine silver spoons. But in this case he did appear Like a slop-merchant from Wapping, And with smug face, and eye severe, On every side did perk and peer Till he saw Peter dead or napping. He had on an upper Benjamin (For he was of the driving schism) In the which he wrapped his skin From the storm he travelled in, For fear of rheumatism. He called the ghost out of the corse;-- It was exceedingly like Peter,-- Only its voice was hollow and hoarse-- It had a queerish look of course-- Its dress too was a little neater. The Devil knew not his name and lot; Peter knew not that he was Bell: Each had an upper stream of thought, Which made all seem as it was not; Fitting itself to all things well. Peter thought he had parents dear, Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies, In the fens of Lincolnshire; He perhaps had found them there Had he gone and boldly shown his Solemn phiz in his own village; Where he thought oft when a boy He'd clomb the orchard walls to pillage The produce of his neighbour's tillage, With marvellous pride and joy. And the Devil thought he had, 'Mid the misery and confusion Of an unjust war, just made A fortune by the gainful trade Of giving soldiers rations bad-- The world is full of strange delusion-- That he had a mansion planned In a square like Grosvenor Square, That he was aping fashion, and That he now came to Westmoreland To see what was romantic there. And all this, though quite ideal,-- Ready at a breath to vanish,-- Was a state not more unreal Than the peace he could not feel, Or the care he could not banish. After a little conversation, The Devil told Peter, if he chose, He'd bring him to the world of fashion By giving him a situation In his own service--and new clothes. And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud, And after waiting some few days For a new livery--dirty yellow Turned up with black--the wretched fellow Was bowled to Hell in the Devil's chaise. PART 3. HELL. Hell is a city much like London-- A populous and a smoky city; There are all sorts of people undone, And there is little or no fun done; Small justice shown, and still less pity. There is a Castles, and a Canning, A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh; All sorts of caitiff corpses planning All sorts of cozening for trepanning Corpses less corrupt than they. There is a , who has lost His wits, or sold them, none knows which; He walks about a double ghost, And though as thin as Fraud almost-- Ever grows more grim and rich. There is a Chancery Court; a King; A manufacturing mob; a set Of thieves who by themselves are sent Similar thieves to represent; An army; and a public debt. Which last is a scheme of paper money, And means--being interpreted-- 'Bees, keep your wax--give us the honey, And we will plant, while skies are sunny, Flowers, which in winter serve instead.' There is a great talk of revolution-- And a great chance of despotism-- German soldiers--camps--confusion-- Tumults--lotteries--rage--delusion-- Gin--suicide--and methodism; Taxes too, on wine and bread, And meat, and beer, and tea, and cheese, From which those patriots pure are fed, Who gorge before they reel to bed The tenfold essence of all these. There are mincing women, mewing, (Like cats, who amant misere,) Of their own virtue, and pursuing Their gentler sisters to that ruin, Without which--what were chastity?(2) Lawyers--judges--old hobnobbers Are there--bailiffs--chancellors-- Bishops--great and little robbers-- Rhymesters--pamphleteers--stock-jobbers-- Men of glory in the wars,-- Things whose trade is, over ladies To lean, and flirt, and stare, and simper, Till all that is divine in woman Grows cruel, courteous, smooth, inhuman, Crucified 'twixt a smile and whimper. Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling, Frowning, preaching--such a riot! Each with never-ceasing labour, Whilst he thinks he cheats his neighbour, Cheating his own heart of quiet. And all these meet at levees;-- Dinners convivial and political;-- Suppers of epic poets;--teas, Where small talk dies in agonies;-- Breakfasts professional and critical; Lunches and snacks so aldermanic That one would furnish forth ten dinners, Where reigns a Cretan-tongued panic, Lest news Russ, Dutch, or Alemannic Should make some losers, and some winners-- At conversazioni--balls-- Conventicles--and drawing-rooms-- Courts of law--committees--calls Of a morning--clubs--book-stalls-- Churches--masquerades--and tombs. And this is Hell--and in this smother All are damnable and damned; Each one damning, damns the other; They are damned by one another, By none other are they damned. 'Tis a lie to say, 'God damns'! (1) Where was Heaven's Attorney General When they first gave out such flams? Let there be an end of shams, They are mines of poisonous mineral. Statesmen damn themselves to be Cursed; and lawyers damn their souls To the auction of a fee; Churchmen damn themselves to see God's sweet love in burning coals. The rich are damned, beyond all cure, To taunt, and starve, and trample on The weak and wretched; and the poor Damn their broken hearts to endure Stripe on stripe, with groan on groan. Sometimes the poor are damned indeed To take,--not means for being blessed,-- But Cobbett's snuff, revenge; that weed From which the worms that it doth feed Squeeze less than they before possessed. And some few, like we know who, Damned--but God alone knows why-- To believe their minds are given To make this ugly Hell a Heaven; In which faith they live and die. Thus, as in a town, plague-stricken, Each man be he sound or no Must indifferently sicken; As when day begins to thicken, None knows a pigeon from a crow,-- So good and bad, sane and mad, The oppressor and the oppressed; Those who weep to see what others Smile to inflict upon their brothers; Lovers, haters, worst and best; All are damned--they breathe an air, Thick, infected, joy-dispelling: Each pursues what seems most fair, Mining like moles, through mind, and there Scoop palace-caverns vast, where Care In throned state is ever dwelling. PART 4. SIN. Lo. Peter in Hell's Grosvenor Square, A footman in the Devil's service! And the misjudging world would swear That every man in service there To virtue would prefer vice. But Peter, though now damned, was not What Peter was before damnation. Men oftentimes prepare a lot Which ere it finds them, is not what Suits with their genuine station. All things that Peter saw and felt Had a peculiar aspect to him; And when they came within the belt Of his own nature, seemed to melt, Like cloud to cloud, into him. And so the outward world uniting To that within him, he became Considerably uninviting To those who, meditation slighting, Were moulded in a different frame. And he scorned them, and they scorned him; And he scorned all they did; and they Did all that men of their own trim Are wont to do to please their whim, Drinking, lying, swearing, play. Such were his fellow-servants; thus His virtue, like our own, was built Too much on that indignant fuss Hypocrite Pride stirs up in us To bully one another's guilt. He had a mind which was somehow At once circumference and centre Of all he might or feel or know; Nothing went ever out, although Something did ever enter. He had as much imagination As a pint-pot;--he never could Fancy another situation, From which to dart his contemplation, Than that wherein he stood. Yet his was individual mind, And new created all he saw In a new manner, and refined Those new creations, and combined Them, by a master-spirit's law. Thus--though unimaginative-- An apprehension clear, intense, Of his mind's work, had made alive The things it wrought on; I believe Wakening a sort of thought in sense. But from the first 'twas Peter's drift To be a kind of moral eunuch, He touched the hem of Nature's shift, Felt faint--and never dared uplift The closest, all-concealing tunic. She laughed the while, with an arch smile, And kissed him with a sister's kiss, And said--My best Diogenes, I love you well--but, if you please, Tempt not again my deepest bliss. ''Tis you are cold--for I, not coy, Yield love for love, frank, warm, and true; And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy-- His errors prove it--knew my joy More, learned friend, than you. 'Boeca bacciata non perde ventura, Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna:-- So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might cure a Male prude, like you, from what you now endure, a Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna. Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe. And smoothed his spacious forehead down With his broad palm;--'twixt love and fear, He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer, And in his dream sate down. The Devil was no uncommon creature; A leaden-witted thief--just huddled Out of the dross and scum of nature; A toad-like lump of limb and feature, With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled. He was that heavy, dull, cold thing, The spirit of evil well may be: A drone too base to have a sting; Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing, And calls lust, luxury. Now he was quite the kind of wight Round whom collect, at a fixed aera, Venison, turtle, hock, and claret,-- Good cheer--and those who come to share it-- And best East Indian madeira! It was his fancy to invite Men of science, wit, and learning, Who came to lend each other light; He proudly thought that his gold's might Had set those spirits burning. And men of learning, science, wit, Considered him as you and I Think of some rotten tree, and sit Lounging and dining under it, Exposed to the wide sky. And all the while with loose fat smile, The willing wretch sat winking there, Believing 'twas his power that made That jovial scene--and that all paid Homage to his unnoticed chair. Though to be sure this place was Hell; He was the Devil--and all they-- What though the claret circled well, And wit, like ocean, rose and fell?-- Were damned eternally. PART 5. GRACE. Among the guests who often stayed Till the Devil's petits-soupers, A man there came, fair as a maid, And Peter noted what he said, Standing behind his master's chair. He was a mighty poet--and A subtle-souled psychologist; All things he seemed to understand, Of old or new--of sea or land-- But his own mind--which was a mist. This was a man who might have turned Hell into Heaven--and so in gladness A Heaven unto himself have earned; But he in shadows undiscerned 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, Would, heedless of a broken pate, Stand like a man asleep, or balk Some wishing guest of knife or fork, Or drop and break his master's plate. At night he oft would start and wake Like a lover, and began In a wild measure songs to make On moor, and glen, and rocky lake, And on the heart of man-- And on the universal sky-- And the wide earth's bosom green,-- And the sweet, strange mystery Of what beyond these things may lie, And yet remain unseen. For in his thought he visited The spots in which, ere dead and damned, He his wayward life had led; Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed Which thus his fancy crammed. And these obscure remembrances Stirred such harmony in Peter, That, whensoever he should please, He could speak of rocks and trees In poetic metre. For though it was without a sense Of memory, yet he remembered well Many a ditch and quick-set fence; Of lakes he had intelligence, He knew something of heath and fell. He had also dim recollections Of pedlars 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 Announcing from the frozen hearth Of a cold age, that none might tame The soul of that diviner flame It augured to the Earth: Like gentle rains, on the dry plains, Making that green which late was gray, Or like the sudden moon, that stains Some gloomy chamber's window-panes With a broad light like day. For language was in Peter's hand Like clay while he was yet a potter; And he made songs for all the land, Sweet both to feel and understand, As pipkins late to mountain Cotter. And Mr. --, the bookseller, 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 6. 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, The Devil to all the first Reviews A copy of it slyly 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. '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, tenpence Peter paid-- Untied them--read them--went half mad. '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? 'What have I done to them?--and who IS Mrs. Foy? 'Tis very cruel To speak of me and Betty so! Adultery! God defend me! Oh! I've half a mind to fight a duel. '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, For half a guinea or a crown, He bought oblivion or renown From God's own voice (1) 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. 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 fair 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. When the book came, the Devil sent It to P. Verbovale (2), 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 praebens 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". This steed in vision he would ride, High trotting over nine-inch bridges, With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride, Mocking and mowing by his side-- A mad-brained goblin for a guide-- Over corn-fields, gates, and hedges. 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. 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. 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.' His morals thus were undermined:-- The old Peter--the hard, old Potter-- Was born anew within his mind; He grew dull, harsh, sly, unrefined, As when he tramped beside the Otter. (1) In the death hues of agony Lambently flashing from a fish, Now Peter felt amused to see Shades like a rainbow's rise and flee, Mixed with a certain hungry wish(2). So in his Country's dying face He looked--and, lovely as she lay, Seeking in vain his last embrace, Wailing her own abandoned case, With hardened sneer he turned away: And coolly to his own soul said;-- 'Do you not think that we might make A poem on her when she's dead:-- Or, no--a thought is in my head-- Her shroud for a new sheet I'll take: 'My wife wants one.--Let who will bury This mangled corpse! And I and you, My dearest Soul, will then make merry, As the Prince Regent did with Sherry,--' 'Ay--and at last desert me too.' And so his Soul would not be gay, But moaned within him; like a fawn Moaning within a cave, it lay Wounded and wasting, day by day, Till all its life of life was gone. As troubled skies stain waters clear, The storm in Peter's heart and mind Now made his verses dark and queer: They were the ghosts of what they were, Shaking dim grave-clothes in the wind. For he now raved enormous folly, Of Baptisms, Sunday-schools, and Graves, 'Twould make George Colman melancholy To have heard him, like a male Molly, Chanting those stupid staves. Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse On Peter while he wrote for freedom, So soon as in his song they spy The folly which soothes tyranny, Praise him, for those who feed 'em. 'He was a man, too great to scan;-- A planet lost in truth's keen rays:-- His virtue, awful and prodigious;-- He was the most sublime, religious, Pure-minded Poet of these days.' As soon as he read that, cried Peter, 'Eureka! I have found the way To make a better thing of metre Than e'er was made by living creature Up to this blessed day.' Then Peter wrote odes to the Devil;-- In one of which he meekly said: 'May Carnage and Slaughter, Thy niece and thy daughter, May Rapine and Famine, Thy gorge ever cramming, Glut thee with living and dead! 'May Death and Damnation, And Consternation, Flit up from Hell with pure intent! Slash them at Manchester, Glasgow, Leeds, and Chester; Drench all with blood from Avon to Trent. 'Let thy body-guard yeomen Hew down babes and women, And laugh with bold triumph till Heaven be rent! When Moloch in Jewry Munched children with fury, It was thou, Devil, dining with pure intent. (1) PART 7. DOUBLE DAMNATION. The Devil now knew his proper cue.-- Soon as he read the ode, he drove To his friend Lord MacMurderchouse's, A man of interest in both houses, And said:--'For money or for love, '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 Peter-- He 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--oh, 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 him. 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 doze 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. All grew dull as Peter's self. 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 jackass 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?
So spake the Son of God; and Satan stood A while as mute, confounded what to say, What to reply, confuted and convinced Of his weak arguing and fallacious drift; At length, collecting all his serpent wiles, With soothing words renewed, him thus accosts:— "I see thou know'st what is of use to know, What best to say canst say, to do canst do; Thy actions to thy words accord; thy words To thy large heart give utterance due; thy heart Contains of good, wise, just, the perfet shape. Should kings and nations from thy mouth consult, Thy counsel would be as the oracle Urim and Thummim, those oraculous gems On Aaron's breast, or tongue of Seers old Infallible; or, wert thou sought to deeds That might require the array of war, thy skill Of conduct would be such that all the world Could not sustain thy prowess, or subsist In battle, though against thy few in arms. These godlike virtues wherefore dost thou hide? Affecting private life, or more obscure In savage wilderness, wherefore deprive All Earth her wonder at thy acts, thyself The fame and glory—glory, the reward That sole excites to high attempts the flame Of most erected spirits, most tempered pure AEthereal, who all pleasures else despise, All treasures and all gain esteem as dross, And dignities and powers, all but the highest? Thy years are ripe, and over-ripe. The son Of Macedonian Philip had ere these Won Asia, and the throne of Cyrus held At his dispose; young Scipio had brought down The Carthaginian pride; young Pompey quelled The Pontic king, and in triumph had rode. Yet years, and to ripe years judgment mature, Quench not the thirst of glory, but augment. Great Julius, whom now all the world admires, The more he grew in years, the more inflamed With glory, wept that he had lived so long Ingloroious. But thou yet art not too late." To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied:— "Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth For empire's sake, nor empire to affect For glory's sake, by all thy argument. For what is glory but the blaze of fame, The people's praise, if always praise unmixed? And what the people but a herd confused, A miscellaneous rabble, who extol Things vulgar, and, well weighed, scarce worth the praise? They praise and they admire they know not what, And know not whom, but as one leads the other; And what delight to be by such extolled, To live upon their tongues, and be their talk? Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise— His lot who dares be singularly good. The intelligent among them and the wise Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised. This is true glory and renown—when God, Looking on the Earth, with approbation marks The just man, and divulges him through Heaven To all his Angels, who with true applause Recount his praises. Thus he did to Job, When, to extend his fame through Heaven and Earth, As thou to thy reproach may'st well remember, He asked thee, 'Hast thou seen my servant Job?' Famous he was in Heaven; on Earth less known, Where glory is false glory, attributed To things not glorious, men not worthy of fame. They err who count it glorious to subdue By conquest far and wide, to overrun Large countries, and in field great battles win, Great cities by assault. What do these worthies But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave Peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote, Made captive, yet deserving freedom more Than those their conquerors, who leave behind Nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove, And all the flourishing works of peace destroy; Then swell with pride, and must be titled Gods, Great benefactors of mankind, Deliverers, Worshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice? One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other; Till conqueror Death discover them scarce men, Rowling in brutish vices, and deformed, Violent or shameful death their due reward. But, if there be in glory aught of good; It may be means far different be attained, Without ambition, war, or violence— By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent, By patience, temperance. I mention still Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne, Made famous in a land and times obscure; Who names not now with honour patient Job? Poor Socrates, (who next more memorable?) By what he taught and suffered for so doing, For truth's sake suffering death unjust, lives now Equal in fame to proudest conquerors. Yet, if for fame and glory aught be done, Aught suffered—if young African for fame His wasted country freed from Punic rage— The deed becomes unpraised, the man at least, And loses, though but verbal, his reward. Shall I seek glory, then, as vain men seek, Oft not deserved? I seek not mine, but His Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am." To whom the Tempter, murmuring, thus replied:— "Think not so slight of glory, therein least Resembling thy great Father. He seeks glory, And for his glory all things made, all things Orders and governs; nor content in Heaven, By all his Angels glorified, requires Glory from men, from all men, good or bad, Wise or unwise, no difference, no exemption. Above all sacrifice, or hallowed gift, Glory he requires, and glory he receives, Promiscuous from all nations, Jew, or Greek, Or Barbarous, nor exception hath declared; From us, his foes pronounced, glory he exacts." To whom our Saviour fervently replied: "And reason; since his Word all things produced, Though chiefly not for glory as prime end, But to shew forth his goodness, and impart His good communicable to every soul Freely; of whom what could He less expect Than glory and benediction—that is, thanks— The slightest, easiest, readiest recompense From them who could return him nothing else, And, not returning that, would likeliest render Contempt instead, dishonour, obloquy? Hard recompense, unsuitable return For so much good, so much beneficience! But why should man seek glory, who of his own Hath nothing, and to whom nothing belongs But condemnation, ignominy, and shame— Who, for so many benefits received, Turned recreant to God, ingrate and false, And so of all true good himself despoiled; Yet, sacrilegious, to himself would take That which to God alone of right belongs? Yet so much bounty is in God, such grace, That who advances his glory, not their own, Them he himself to glory will advance." So spake the Son of God; and here again Satan had not to answer, but stood struck With guilt of his own sin—for he himself, Insatiable of glory, had lost all; Yet of another plea bethought him soon:— "Of glory, as thou wilt," said he, "so deem; Worth or not worth the seeking, let it pass. But to a Kingdom thou art born—ordained To sit upon thy father David's throne, By mother's side thy father, though thy right Be now in powerful hands, that will not part Easily from possession won with arms. Judaea now and all the Promised Land, Reduced a province under Roman yoke, Obeys Tiberius, nor is always ruled With temperate sway: oft have they violated The Temple, oft the Law, with foul affronts, Abominations rather, as did once Antiochus. And think'st thou to regain Thy right by sitting still, or thus retiring? So did not Machabeus. He indeed Retired unto the Desert, but with arms; And o'er a mighty king so oft prevailed That by strong hand his family obtained, Though priests, the crown, and David's throne usurped, With Modin and her suburbs once content. If kingdom move thee not, let move thee zeal And duty—zeal and duty are not slow, But on Occasion's forelock watchful wait: They themselves rather are occasion best— Zeal of thy Father's house, duty to free Thy country from her heathen servitude. So shalt thou best fulfil, best verify, The Prophets old, who sung thy endless reign— The happier reign the sooner it begins. Rein then; what canst thou better do the while?" To whom our Saviour answer thus returned:— "All things are best fulfilled in their due time; And time there is for all things, Truth hath said. If of my reign Prophetic Writ hath told That it shall never end, so, when begin The Father in his purpose hath decreed— He in whose hand all times and seasons rowl. What if he hath decreed that I shall first Be tried in humble state, and things adverse, By tribulations, injuries, insults, Contempts, and scorns, and snares, and violence, Suffering, abstaining, quietly expecting Without distrust or doubt, that He may know What I can suffer, how obey? Who best Can suffer best can do, best reign who first Well hath obeyed—just trial ere I merit My exaltation without change or end. But what concerns it thee when I begin My everlasting Kingdom? Why art thou Solicitous? What moves thy inquisition? Know'st thou not that my rising is thy fall, And my promotion will be thy destruction?" To whom the Tempter, inly racked, replied:— "Let that come when it comes. All hope is lost Of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left is left no fear. If there be worse, the expectation more Of worse torments me than the feeling can. I would be at the worst; worst is my port, My harbour, and my ultimate repose, The end I would attain, my final good. My error was my error, and my crime My crime; whatever, for itself condemned, And will alike be punished, whether thou Reign or reign not—though to that gentle brow Willingly I could fly, and hope thy reign, From that placid aspect and meek regard, Rather than aggravate my evil state, Would stand between me and thy Father's ire (Whose ire I dread more than the fire of Hell) A shelter and a kind of shading cool Interposition, as a summer's cloud. If I, then, to the worst that can be haste, Why move thy feet so slow to what is best? Happiest, both to thyself and all the world, That thou, who worthiest art, shouldst be their King! Perhaps thou linger'st in deep thoughts detained Of the enterprise so hazardous and high! No wonder; for, though in thee be united What of perfection can in Man be found, Or human nature can receive, consider Thy life hath yet been private, most part spent At home, scarce viewed the Galilean towns, And once a year Jerusalem, few days' Short sojourn; and what thence couldst thou observe? The world thou hast not seen, much less her glory, Empires, and monarchs, and their radiant courts— Best school of best experience, quickest in sight In all things that to greatest actions lead. The wisest, unexperienced, will be ever Timorous, and loth, with novice modesty (As he who, seeking asses, found a kingdom) Irresolute, unhardy, unadventrous. But I will bring thee where thou soon shalt quit Those rudiments, and see before thine eyes The monarchies of the Earth, their pomp and state— Sufficient introduction to inform Thee, of thyself so apt, in regal arts, And regal mysteries; that thou may'st know How best their opposition to withstand." With that (such power was given him then), he took The Son of God up to a mountain high. It was a mountain at whose verdant feet A spacious plain outstretched in circuit wide Lay pleasant; from his side two rivers flowed, The one winding, the other straight, and left between Fair champaign, with less rivers interveined, Then meeting joined their tribute to the sea. Fertil of corn the glebe, of oil, and wine; With herds the pasture thronged, with flocks the hills; Huge cities and high-towered, that well might seem The seats of mightiest monarchs; and so large The prospect was that here and there was room For barren desert, fountainless and dry. To this high mountain-top the Tempter brought Our Saviour, and new train of words began:— "Well have we speeded, and o'er hill and dale, Forest, and field, and flood, temples and towers, Cut shorter many a league. Here thou behold'st Assyria, and her empire's ancient bounds, Araxes and the Caspian lake; thence on As far as Indus east, Euphrates west, And oft beyond; to south the Persian bay, And, inaccessible, the Arabian drouth: Here, Nineveh, of length within her wall Several days' journey, built by Ninus old, Of that first golden monarchy the seat, And seat of Salmanassar, whose success Israel in long captivity still mourns; There Babylon, the wonder of all tongues, As ancient, but rebuilt by him who twice Judah and all thy father David's house Led captive, and Jerusalem laid waste, Till Cyrus set them free; Persepolis, His city, there thou seest, and Bactra there; Ecbatana her structure vast there shews, And Hecatompylos her hunderd gates; There Susa by Choaspes, amber stream, The drink of none but kings; of later fame, Built by Emathian or by Parthian hands, The great Seleucia, Nisibis, and there Artaxata, Teredon, Ctesiphon, Turning with easy eye, thou may'st behold. All these the Parthian (now some ages past By great Arsaces led, who founded first That empire) under his dominion holds, From the luxurious kings of Antioch won. And just in time thou com'st to have a view Of his great power; for now the Parthian king In Ctesiphon hath gathered all his host Against the Scythian, whose incursions wild Have wasted Sogdiana; to her aid He marches now in haste. See, though from far, His thousands, in what martial equipage They issue forth, steel bows and shafts their arms, Of equal dread in flight or in pursuit— All horsemen, in which fight they most excel; See how in warlike muster they appear, In rhombs, and wedges, and half-moons, and wings." He looked, and saw what numbers numberless The city gates outpoured, light-armed troops In coats of mail and military pride. In mail their horses clad, yet fleet and strong, Prauncing their riders bore, the flower and choice Of many provinces from bound to bound— From Arachosia, from Candaor east, And Margiana, to the Hyrcanian cliffs Of Caucasus, and dark Iberian dales; From Atropatia, and the neighbouring plains Of Adiabene, Media, and the south Of Susiana, to Balsara's haven. He saw them in their forms of battle ranged, How quick they wheeled, and flying behind them shot Sharp sleet of arrowy showers against the face Of their pursuers, and overcame by flight; The field all iron cast a gleaming brown. Nor wanted clouds of foot, nor, on each horn, Cuirassiers all in steel for standing fight, Chariots, or elephants indorsed with towers Of archers; nor of labouring pioners A multitude, with spades and axes armed, To lay hills plain, fell woods, or valleys fill, Or where plain was raise hill, or overlay With bridges rivers proud, as with a yoke: Mules after these, camels and dromedaries, And waggons fraught with utensils of war. Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp, When Agrican, with all his northern powers, Besieged Albracea, as romances tell, The city of Gallaphrone, from thence to win The fairest of her sex, Angelica, His daughter, sought by many prowest knights, Both Paynim and the peers of Charlemane. Such and so numerous was their chivalry; At sight whereof the Fiend yet more presumed, And to our Saviour thus his words renewed:— "That thou may'st know I seek not to engage Thy virtue, and not every way secure On no slight grounds thy safety, hear and mark To what end I have brought thee hither, and shew All this fair sight. Thy kingdom, though foretold By Prophet or by Angel, unless thou Endeavour, as thy father David did, Thou never shalt obtain: prediction still In all things, and all men, supposes means; Without means used, what it predicts revokes. But say thou wert possessed of David's throne By free consent of all, none opposite, Samaritan or Jew; how couldst thou hope Long to enjoy it quiet and secure Between two such enclosing enemies, Roman and Parthian? Therefore one of these Thou must make sure thy own: the Parthian first, By my advice, as nearer, and of late Found able by invasion to annoy Thy country, and captive lead away her kings, Antigonus and old Hyrcanus, bound, Maugre the Roman. It shall be my task To render thee the Parthian at dispose, Choose which thou wilt, by conquest or by league. By him thou shalt regain, without him not, That which alone can truly reinstall thee In David's royal seat, his true successor— Deliverance of thy brethren, those Ten Tribes Whose offspring in his territory yet serve In Habor, and among the Medes dispersed: The sons of Jacob, two of Joseph, lost Thus long from Israel, serving, as of old Their fathers in the land of Egypt served, This offer sets before thee to deliver. These if from servitude thou shalt restore To their inheritance, then, nor till then, Thou on the throne of David in full glory, From Egypt to Euphrates and beyond, Shalt reign, and Rome or Caesar not need fear." To whom our Saviour answered thus, unmoved:— "Much ostentation vain of fleshly arm And fragile arms, much instrument of war, Long in preparing, soon to nothing brought, Before mine eyes thou hast set, and in my ear Vented much policy, and projects deep Of enemies, of aids, battles, and leagues, Plausible to the world, to me worth naught. Means I must use, thou say'st; prediction else Will unpredict, and fail me of the throne! My time, I told thee (and that time for thee Were better farthest off), is not yet come. When that comes, think not thou to find me slack On my part aught endeavouring, or to need Thy politic maxims, or that cumbersome Luggage of war there shewn me—argument Of human weakness rather than of strength. My brethren, as thou call'st them, those Ten Tribes, I must deliver, if I mean to reign David's true heir, and his full sceptre sway To just extent over all Israel's sons! But whence to thee this zeal? Where was it then For Israel, or for David, or his throne, When thou stood'st up his tempter to the pride Of numbering Israel—which cost the lives of threescore and ten thousand Israelites By three days' pestilence? Such was thy zeal To Israel then, the same that now to me. As for those captive tribes, themselves were they Who wrought their own captivity, fell off From God to worship calves, the deities Of Egypt, Baal next and Ashtaroth, And all the idolatries of heathen round, Besides their other worse than heathenish crimes; Nor in the land of their captivity Humbled themselves, or penitent besought The God of their forefathers, but so died Impenitent, and left a race behind Like to themselves, distinguishable scarce From Gentiles, but by circumcision vain, And God with idols in their worship joined. Should I of these the liberty regard, Who, freed, as to their ancient patrimony, Unhumbled, unrepentant, unreformed, Headlong would follow, and to their gods perhaps Of Bethel and of Dan? No; let them serve Their enemies who serve idols with God. Yet He at length, time to himself best known, Remembering Abraham, by some wondrous call May bring them back, repentant and sincere, And at their passing cleave the Assyrian flood, While to their native land with joy they haste, As the Red Sea and Jordan once he cleft, When to the Promised Land their fathers passed. To his due time and providence I leave them." So spake Israel's true King, and to the Fiend Made answer meet, that made void all his wiles. So fares it when with truth falsehood contends.
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