The Vision of Judgment. By Quevedo Redivivus.

SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOROF "WAT TYLER."

"A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word."

[Merchant of Venice, act iv. sc. 1, lines 218, 336.5

" fools rush in where angels fear to tread."

[POPE'S Essay on Criticism, line 625.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,So little trouble had been given of late;10Not that the place by any means was full,But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight"The Devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,And "a pull altogether," as they sayAt sea--which drew most souls another way.15

The Angels all were singing out of tune,And hoarse with having little else to do,Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,Or curb a runaway young star or two,Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon20Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue,Splitting some planet with its playful tail,As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

The Guardian Seraphs had retired on high,Finding their charges past all care below;25Terrestrial business filled nought in the skySave the Recording Angel's black bureau;Who found, indeed, the facts to multiplyWith such rapidity of vice and woe,That he had stripped off both his wings in quills,30And yet was in arrear of human ills.

His business so augmented of late years,That he was forced, against his will, no doubt,(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)For some resource to turn himself about,35And claim the help of his celestial peers,To aid him ere he should be quite worn outBy the increased demand for his remarks:Six Angels and twelve Saints were named his clerks.

This was a handsome board--at least for Heaven;40And yet they had even then enough to do,So many Conquerors' cars were daily driven,So many kingdoms fitted up anew;Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven,Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,45They threw their pens down in divine disgust--The page was so besmeared with blood and dust.

This by the way; 'tis not mine to recordWhat Angels shrink from: even the very DevilOn this occasion his own work abhorred,50So surfeited with the infernal revel:Though he himself had sharpened every sword,It almost quenched his innate thirst of evil.(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion--'Tis, that he has both Generals in reversion.)55

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace,Which peopled earth no better, Hell as wont,And Heaven none--they form the tyrant's lease,With nothing but new names subscribed upon't;'Twill one day finish: meantime they increase,60"With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front,Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are bornLess formidable in the head than horn.

In the first year of Freedom's second dawnDied George the Third; although no tyrant, one65Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawnLeft him nor mental nor external sun:A better farmer ne'er brushed dew from lawn,A worse king never left a realm undone!He died--but left his subjects still behind,70One half as mad--and t'other no less blind.

He died! his death made no great stir on earth:His burial made some pomp; there was profusionOf velvet--gilding--brass--and no great dearthOf aught but tears--save those shed by collusion:75For these things may be bought at their true worth;Of elegy there was the due infusion--Bought also; and the torches, cloaks and banners,Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

Formed a sepulchral melodrame. Of all80The fools who flocked to swell or see the show,Who cared about the corpse? The funeralMade the attraction, and the black the woe,There throbbed not there a thought which pierced the pall;And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,85It seemed the mockery of hell to foldThe rottenness of eighty years in gold.

So mix his body with the dust! It mightReturn to what it must far sooner, wereThe natural compound left alone to fight90Its way back into earth, and fire, and air;But the unnatural balsams merely blightWhat Nature made him at his birth, as bareAs the mere million's base unmummied clay--Yet all his spices but prolong decay.95

He's dead--and upper earth with him has done;He's buried; save the undertaker's bill,Or lapidary scrawl, the world is goneFor him, unless he left a German will:But where's the proctor who will ask his son?100In whom his qualities are reigning still,Except that household virtue, most uncommon,Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

"God save the king!" It is a large economyIn God to save the like; but if he will105Be saving, all the better; for not one am IOf those who think damnation better still:I hardly know too if not quite alone am IIn this small hope of bettering future illBy circumscribing, with some slight restriction,110The eternity of Hell's hot jurisdiction.

I know this is unpopular; I know'Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damnedFor hoping no one else may e'er be so;I know my catechism; I know we're crammed115With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow;I know that all save England's Church have shammed,And that the other twice two hundred churchesAnd synagogues have made a damned bad purchase.

God help us all! God help me too! I am,120God knows, as helpless as the Devil can wish,And not a whit more difficult to damn,Than is to bring to land a late-hooked fish,Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish,125As one day will be that immortal fryOf almost every body born to die.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,And nodded o'er his keys: when, lo! there cameA wondrous noise he had not heard of late--130A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame;In short, a roar of things extremely great,Which would have made aught save a Saint exclaim;But he, with first a start and then a wink,Said, "There's another star gone out, I think!"135

But ere he could return to his repose,A Cherub flapped his right wing o'er his eyes--At which Saint Peter yawned, and rubbed his nose:"Saint porter," said the angel, "prithee rise!"Waving a goodly wing, which glowed, as glows140An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes:To which the saint replied, "Well, what's the matter?"Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?"

"No," quoth the Cherub: "George the Third is dead.""And who is George the Third?" replied the apostle:145"What George? what Third?" "The King of England," saidThe angel. "Well! he won't find kings to jostleHim on his way; but does he wear his head?Because the last we saw here had a tustle,And ne'er would have got into Heaven's good graces,150Had he not flung his head in all our faces.

"He was--if I remember--King of France;That head of his, which could not keep a crownOn earth, yet ventured in my face to advanceA claim to those of martyrs--like my own:155If I had had my sword, as I had onceWhen I cut ears off, I had cut him down;But having but my keys, and not my brand,I only knocked his head from out his hand.

"And then he set up such a headless howl,160That all the Saints came out and took him in;And there he sits by Saint Paul, cheek by jowl;That fellow Paul--the parvenù! The skinOf Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowlIn heaven, and upon earth redeemed his sin,165So as to make a martyr, never spedBetter than did this weak and wooden head.

"But had it come up here upon its shoulders,There would have been a different tale to tell:The fellow-feeling in the Saint's beholders170Seems to have acted on them like a spell;And so this very foolish head Heaven soldersBack on its trunk: it may be very well,And seems the custom here to overthrowWhatever has been wisely done below."175

The Angel answered, "Peter! do not pout:The King who comes has head and all entire,And never knew much what it was about--He did as doth the puppet--by its wire,And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt:180My business and your own is not to inquireInto such matters, but to mind our cue--Which is to act as we are bid to do."

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,185Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swanSome silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,Or Thames, or Tweed), and midst them an old manWith an old soul, and both extremely blind,Halted before the gate, and, in his shroud,190Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud.

But bringing up the rear of this bright hostA Spirit of a different aspect wavedHis wings, like thunder-clouds above some coastWhose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;195His brow was like the deep when tempest-tossed;Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engravedEternal wrath on his immortal face,And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space.

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate200Ne'er to be entered more by him or Sin,With such a glance of supernatural hate,As made Saint Peter wish himself within;He pottered with his keys at a great rate,And sweated through his Apostolic skin:205Of course his perspiration was but ichor,Or some such other spiritual liquor.

The very Cherubs huddled all together,Like birds when soars the falcon; and they feltA tingling to the tip of every feather,210And formed a circle like Orion's beltAround their poor old charge; who scarce knew whitherHis guards had led him, though they gently dealtWith royal Manes (for by many stories,And true, we learn the Angels all are Tories).215

As things were in this posture, the gate flewAsunder, and the flashing of its hingesFlung over space an universal hueOf many-coloured flame, until its tingesReached even our speck of earth, and made a new220Aurora borealis spread its fringesO'er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound,By Captain Parry's crew, in "Melville's Sound."

And from the gate thrown open issued beamingA beautiful and mighty Thing of Light,225Radiant with glory, like a banner streamingVictorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight:My poor comparisons must needs be teemingWith earthly likenesses, for here the nightOf clay obscures our best conceptions, saving230Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving.

'Twas the Archangel Michael: all men knowThe make of Angels and Archangels, sinceThere's scarce a scribbler has not one to show,From the fiends' leader to the Angels' Prince.235There also are some altar-pieces, thoughI really can't say that they much evinceOne's inner notions of immortal spirits;But let the connoisseurs explain their merits.

Michael flew forth in glory and in good;240A goodly work of him from whom all GloryAnd Good arise; the portal past--he stood;Before him the young Cherubs and Saints hoary--(I say young, begging to be understoodBy looks, not years; and should be very sorry245To state, they were not older than St. Peter,But merely that they seemed a little sweeter).

The Cherubs and the Saints bowed down beforeThat arch-angelic Hierarch, the firstOf Essences angelical who wore250The aspect of a god; but this ne'er nursedPride in his heavenly bosom, in whose coreNo thought, save for his Maker's service, durstIntrude, however glorified and high;He knew him but the Viceroy of the sky.255

He and the sombre, silent Spirit met--They knew each other both for good and ill;Such was their power, that neither could forgetHis former friend and future foe; but stillThere was a high, immortal, proud regret260In either's eye, as if 'twere less their willThan destiny to make the eternal yearsTheir date of war, and their "Champ Clos" the spheres.

But here they were in neutral space: we knowFrom Job, that Satan hath the power to pay265A heavenly visit thrice a-year or so;And that the "Sons of God," like those of clay,Must keep him company; and we might showFrom the same book, in how polite a wayThe dialogue is held between the Powers270Of Good and Evil--but 'twould take up hours.

And this is not a theologic tract,To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic,If Job be allegory or a fact,But a true narrative; and thus I pick275From out the whole but such and such an actAs sets aside the slightest thought of trick.'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion,And accurate as any other vision.

The spirits were in neutral space, before280The gate of Heaven; like eastern thresholds isThe place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er,And souls despatched to that world or to this;And therefore Michael and the other woreA civil aspect: though they did not kiss,285Yet still between his Darkness and his BrightnessThere passed a mutual glance of great politeness.

The Archangel bowed, not like a modern beau,But with a graceful oriental bend,Pressing one radiant arm just where below290The heart in good men is supposed to tend;He turned as to an equal, not too low,But kindly; Satan met his ancient friendWith more hauteur, as might an old CastilianPoor Noble meet a mushroom rich civilian.295

He merely bent his diabolic browAn instant; and then raising it, he stoodIn act to assert his right or wrong, and showCause why King George by no means could or shouldMake out a case to be exempt from woe300Eternal, more than other kings, enduedWith better sense and hearts, whom History mentions,Who long have "paved Hell with their good intentions."

Michael began: "What wouldst thou with this man,Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill305Hath he wrought since his mortal race began,That thou canst claim him? Speak! and do thy will,If it be just: if in this earthly spanHe hath been greatly failing to fulfilHis duties as a king and mortal, say,310And he is thine; if not--let him have way."

"Michael!" replied the Prince of Air, "even hereBefore the gate of Him thou servest, mustI claim my subject: and will make appearThat as he was my worshipper in dust,315So shall he be in spirit, although dearTo thee and thine, because nor wine nor lustWere of his weaknesses; yet on the throneHe reigned o'er millions to serve me alone.

"Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was,320Once, more thy master's: but I triumph notIn this poor planet's conquest; nor, alas!Need he thou servest envy me my lot:With all the myriads of bright worlds which passIn worship round him, he may have forgot325Yon weak creation of such paltry things:I think few worth damnation save their kings,

"And these but as a kind of quit-rent, toAssert my right as Lord: and even hadI such an inclination,'twere (as you330Well know) superfluous; they are grown so bad,That Hell has nothing better left to doThan leave them to themselves: so much more madAnd evil by their own internal curse,Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse.335

"Look to the earth, I said, and say again:When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor wormBegan in youth's first bloom and flush to reign,The world and he both wore a different form,And much of earth and all the watery plain340Of Ocean called him king: through many a stormHis isles had floated on the abyss of Time;For the rough virtues chose them for their clime.

"He came to his sceptre young; he leaves it old:Look to the state in which he found his realm,345And left it; and his annals too behold,How to a minion first he gave the helm;How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold,The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelmThe meanest hearts; and for the rest, but glance350Thine eye along America and France.

"'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last(I have the workmen safe); but as a toolSo let him be consumed. From out the pastOf ages, since mankind have known the rule355Of monarchs--from the bloody rolls amassedOf Sin and Slaughter--from the Cæsars' school,Take the worst pupil; and produce a reignMore drenched with gore, more cumbered with the slain.

"He ever warred with freedom and the free:360Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes,So that they uttered the word 'Liberty!'Found George the Third their first opponent. WhoseHistory was ever stained as his will beWith national and individual woes?365I grant his household abstinence; I grantHis neutral virtues, which most monarchs want;

"I know he was a constant consort; ownHe was a decent sire, and middling lord.All this is much, and most upon a throne;370As temperance, if at Apicius' board,Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown.I grant him all the kindest can accord;And this was well for him, but not for thoseMillions who found him what Oppression chose.375

"The New World shook him off; the Old yet groansBeneath what he and his prepared, if notCompleted: he leaves heirs on many thronesTo all his vices, without what begotCompassion for him--his tame virtues; drones380Who sleep, or despots who have now forgotA lesson which shall be re-taught them, wakeUpon the thrones of earth; but let them quake!

"Five millions of the primitive, who holdThe faith which makes ye great on earth, implored385A part of that vast all they held of old,--Freedom to worship--not alone your Lord,Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter! ColdMust be your souls, if you have not abhorredThe foe to Catholic participation390In all the license of a Christian nation.

"True! he allowed them to pray God; but asA consequence of prayer, refused the lawWhich would have placed them upon the same baseWith those who did not hold the Saints in awe."395But here Saint Peter started from his placeAnd cried, "You may the prisoner withdraw:Ere Heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph,While I am guard, may I be damned myself!

"Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange400My office (and his is no sinecure)Than see this royal Bedlam-bigot rangeThe azure fields of Heaven, of that be sure!""Saint!" replied Satan, "you do well to avengeThe wrongs he made your satellites endure;405And if to this exchange you should be given,I'll try to coax our Cerberus up to Heaven!"

Here Michael interposed: "Good Saint! and Devil!Pray, not so fast; you both outrun discretion.Saint Peter! you were wont to be more civil:410Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression,And condescension to the vulgar's level:Even Saints sometimes forget themselves in session.Have you got more to say?"--"No."--"If you please,I'll trouble you to call your witnesses."415

Then Satan turned and waved his swarthy hand,Which stirred with its electric qualitiesClouds farther off than we can understand,Although we find him sometimes in our skies;Infernal thunder shook both sea and land420In all the planets--and Hell's batteriesLet off the artillery, which Milton mentionsAs one of Satan's most sublime inventions.

This was a signal unto such damned soulsAs have the privilege of their damnation425Extended far beyond the mere controlsOf worlds past, present, or to come; no stationIs theirs particularly in the rollsOf Hell assigned; but where their inclinationOr business carries them in search of game,430They may range freely--being damned the same.

They are proud of this--as very well they may,It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt keyStuck in their loins; or like to an "entré"Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry.435I borrow my comparisons from clay,Being clay myself. Let not those spirits beOffended with such base low likenesses;We know their posts are nobler far than these.

When the great signal ran from Heaven to Hell--440About ten million times the distance reckonedFrom our sun to its earth, as we can tellHow much time it takes up, even to a second,For every ray that travels to dispelThe fogs of London, through which, dimly beaconed,445The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year,If that the summer is not too severe:

I say that I can tell--'twas half a minute;I know the solar beams take up more timeEre, packed up for their journey, they begin it;450But then their Telegraph is less sublime,And if they ran a race, they would not win it'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime.The sun takes up some years for every rayTo reach its goal--the Devil not half a day.455

Upon the verge of space, about the sizeOf half-a-crown, a little speck appeared(I've seen a something like it in the skiesIn the Ægean, ere a squall); it neared,And, growing bigger, took another guise;460Like an aërial ship it tacked, and steered,Or was steered (I am doubtful of the grammarOf the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer;

But take your choice): and then it grew a cloud;And so it was--a cloud of witnesses.465But such a cloud! No land ere saw a crowdOf locusts numerous as the heavens saw these;They shadowed with their myriads Space; their loudAnd varied cries were like those of wild geese,(If nations may be likened to a goose),470And realised the phrase of "Hell broke loose."

Here crashed a sturdy oath of stout John Bull,Who damned away his eyes as heretofore:There Paddy brogued "By Jasus!"--"What's your wull?"The temperate Scot exclaimed: the French ghost swore475In certain terms I shan't translate in full,As the first coachman will; and 'midst the war,The voice of Jonathan was heard to express,"Our President is going to war, I guess."

Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane;480In short, an universal shoal of shadesFrom Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain,Of all climes and professions, years and trades,Ready to swear against the good king's reign,Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades:485All summoned by this grand "subpoena," toTry if kings mayn't be damned like me or you.

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale,As Angels can; next, like Italian twilight,He turned all colours--as a peacock's tail,490Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylightIn some old abbey, or a trout not stale,Or distant lightning on the horizon by night,Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand reviewOf thirty regiments in red, green, and blue.495

Then he addressed himself to Satan: "Why--My good old friend, for such I deem you, thoughOur different parties make us fight so shy,I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe;Our difference political, and I500Trust that, whatever may occur below,You know my great respect for you: and thisMakes me regret whate'er you do amiss--

"Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuseMy call for witnesses? I did not mean505That you should half of Earth and Hell produce;'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean,True testimonies are enough: we loseOur Time, nay, our Eternity, betweenThe accusation and defence: if we510Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality."

Satan replied, "To me the matter isIndifferent, in a personal point of view:I can have fifty better souls than thisWith far less trouble than we have gone through515Already; and I merely argued hisLate Majesty of Britain's case with youUpon a point of form: you may disposeOf him; I've kings enough below, God knows!"

Thus spoke the Demon (late called "multifaced"520By multo-scribbling Southey). "Then we'll callOne or two persons of the myriads placedAround our congress, and dispense with allThe rest," quoth Michael: "Who may be so gracedAs to speak first? there's choice enough--who shall525It be?" Then Satan answered, "There are many;But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any."

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking SpriteUpon the instant started from the throng,Dressed in a fashion now forgotten quite;530For all the fashions of the flesh stick longBy people in the next world; where uniteAll the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong,From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat,Almost as scanty, of days less remote.535

The Spirit looked around upon the crowdsAssembled, and exclaimed, "My friends of allThe spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds;So let's to business: why this general call?If those are freeholders I see in shrouds,540And 'tis for an election that they bawl,Behold a candidate with unturned coat!Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?"

"Sir," replied Michael, "you mistake; these thingsAre of a former life, and what we do545Above is more august; to judge of kingsIs the tribunal met: so now you know.""Then I presume those gentlemen with wings,"Said Wilkes, "are Cherubs; and that soul belowLooks much like George the Third, but to my mind550A good deal older--bless me! is he blind?"

"He is what you behold him, and his doomDepends upon his deeds," the Angel said;"If you have aught to arraign in him, the tombGives license to the humblest beggar's head555To lift itself against the loftiest."--"Some,"Said Wilkes, "don't wait to see them laid in lead,For such a liberty--and I, for one,Have told them what I thought beneath the sun."

"Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast560To urge against him," said the Archangel. "Why,"Replied the spirit, "since old scores are past,Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I.Besides, I beat him hollow at the last,With all his Lords and Commons: in the sky565I don't like ripping up old stories, sinceHis conduct was but natural in a prince.

"Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppressA poor unlucky devil without a shilling;But then I blame the man himself much less570Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwillingTo see him punished here for their excess,Since they were both damned long ago, and still inTheir place below: for me, I have forgiven,And vote his habeas corpus into Heaven."575

"Wilkes," said the Devil, "I understand all this;You turned to half a courtier ere you died,And seem to think it would not be amissTo grow a whole one on the other sideOf Charon's ferry; you forget that his580Reign is concluded; whatsoe'er betide,He won't be sovereign more: you've lost your labour,For at the best he will but be your neighbour.

"However, I knew what to think of it,When I beheld you in your jesting way,585Flitting and whispering round about the spitWhere Belial, upon duty for the day,With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt,His pupil; I knew what to think, I say:That fellow even in Hell breeds farther ills;590I'll have him gagged--'twas one of his own Bills.

"Call Junius!" From the crowd a shadow stalked.And at the name there was a general squeeze,So that the very ghosts no longer walkedIn comfort, at their own aërial ease,595But were all rammed, and jammed (but to be balked,As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees,Like wind compressed and pent within a bladder,Or like a human colic, which is sadder.

The shadow came--a tall, thin, grey-haired figure,600That looked as it had been a shade on earth;Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour,But nought to mark its breeding or its birth;Now it waxed little, then again grew bigger,With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth:605But as you gazed upon its features, theyChanged every instant--to what, none could say.

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the lessCould they distinguish whose the features were;The Devil himself seemed puzzled even to guess;610They varied like a dream--now here, now there;And several people swore from out the press,They knew him perfectly; and one could swearHe was his father; upon which anotherWas sure he was his mother's cousin's brother:615

Another, that he was a duke, or knight,An orator, a lawyer, or a priest,A nabob, a man-midwife; but the wightMysterious changed his countenance at leastAs oft as they their minds: though in full sight620He stood, the puzzle only was increased;The man was a phantasmagoria inHimself--he was so volatile and thin.

The moment that you had pronounced him one,Presto! his face changed, and he was another;625And when that change was hardly well put on,It varied, till I don't think his own mother(If that he had a mother) would her sonHave known, he shifted so from one to t'other;Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task,630At this epistolary "Iron Mask."

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem--"Three gentlemen at once" (as sagely saysGood Mrs. Malaprop); then you might deemThat he was not even one; now many rays635Were flashing round him; and now a thick steamHid him from sight--like fogs on London days:Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fanciesAnd certes often like Sir Philip Francis.

I've an hypothesis--'tis quite my own;640I never let it out till now, for fearOf doing people harm about the throne,And injuring some minister or peer,On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown;It is--my gentle public, lend thine ear!645'Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call,Was really--truly--nobody at all.

I don't see wherefore letters should not beWritten without hands, since we daily viewThem written without heads; and books, we see,650Are filled as well without the latter too:And really till we fix on somebodyFor certain sure to claim them as his due,Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will botherThe world to say if there be mouth or author.655

"And who and what art thou?" the Archangel said."For that you may consult my title-page,"Replied this mighty shadow of a shade:"If I have kept my secret half an age,I scarce shall tell it now."--"Canst thou upbraid,"660Continued Michael, "George Rex, or allegeAught further?" Junius answered, "You had betterFirst ask him for his answer to my letter:

"My charges upon record will outlastThe brass of both his epitaph and tomb."665"Repent'st thou not," said Michael, "of some pastExaggeration? something which may doomThyself if false, as him if true? Thou wastToo bitter--is it not so?--in thy gloomOf passion?"--"Passion!" cried the phantom dim,670"I loved my country, and I hated him.

"What I have written, I have written: letThe rest be on his head or mine!" So spokeOld "Nominis Umbra;" and while speaking yet,Away he melted in celestial smoke.675Then Satan said to Michael, "Don't forgetTo call George Washington, and John Horne Tooke,And Franklin;"--but at this time there was heardA cry for room, though not a phantom stirred.

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid680Of Cherubim appointed to that post,The devil Asmodeus to the circle madeHis way, and looked as if his journey costSome trouble. When his burden down he laid,"What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis not a ghost?"685"I know it," quoth the Incubus; "but heShall be one, if you leave the affair to me.

"Confound the renegado! I have sprainedMy left wing, he's so heavy; one would thinkSome of his works about his neck were chained.690But to the point; while hovering o'er the brinkOf Skiddaw (where as usual it still rained),I saw a taper, far below me, wink,And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel--No less on History--than the Holy Bible.695

"The former is the Devil's scripture, andThe latter yours, good Michael: so the affairBelongs to all of us, you understand.I snatched him up just as you see him there,And brought him off for sentence out of hand:700I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air--At least a quarter it can hardly be:I dare say that his wife is still at tea."

Here Satan said, "I know this man of old,And have expected him for some time here;705A sillier fellow you will scarce behold,Or more conceited in his petty sphere:But surely it was not worth while to foldSuch trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear:We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored710With carriage) coming of his own accord.

"But since he's here, let's see what he has done.""Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipatesThe very business you are now upon,And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates.715Who knows to what his ribaldry may run,When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates?""Let's hear," quoth Michael, "what he has to say:You know we're bound to that in every way."

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which720By no means often was his case below,Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitchHis voice into that awful note of woeTo all unhappy hearers within reachOf poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow;725But stuck fast with his first hexameter,Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir.

But ere the spavined dactyls could be spurredInto recitative, in great dismayBoth Cherubim and Seraphim were heard730To murmur loudly through their long array;And Michael rose ere he could get a wordOf all his foundered verses under way,And cried, "For God's sake stop, my friend! 'twere best--'Non Di, non homines'--you know the rest."735

A general bustle spread throughout the throng,Which seemed to hold all verse in detestation;The Angels had of course enough of songWhen upon service; and the generationOf ghosts had heard too much in life, not long740Before, to profit by a new occasion:The Monarch, mute till then, exclaimed, "What! what!Pye come again? No more--no more of that!"

The tumult grew; an universal coughConvulsed the skies, as during a debate,745When 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 prayed to interpose750(Himself an author) only for his prose.

The varlet was not an ill-favoured knave;A good deal like a vulture in the face,With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gaveA smart and sharper-looking sort of grace755To 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 stilled the noise760With one still greater, as is yet the modeOn earth besides; except some grumbling voice,Which now and then will make a slight inroadUpon decorous silence, few will twiceLift up their lungs when fairly overcrowed;765And now the Bard could plead his own bad cause,With all the attitudes of self-applause.

He said--(I only give the heads)--he said,He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his wayUpon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread,770Of which he buttered both sides; 'twould delayToo 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."775

He had written praises of a Regicide;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 cried780Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever;Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin--Had turned his coat--and would have turned his skin.

He had sung against all battles, and againIn their high praise and glory; he had called785Reviewing "the ungentle craft," and thenBecame as base a critic as e'er crawled--Fed, paid, and pampered by the very menBy whom his muse and morals had been mauled:He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose,790And more of both than any body knows.

He had written Wesley's life:--here turning roundTo Satan, "Sir, I'm ready to write yours,In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,With notes and preface, all that most allures795The pious purchaser; and there's no groundFor fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:So let me have the proper documents,That I may add you to my other saints."

Satan bowed, and was silent. "Well, if you,800With amiable modesty, declineMy offer, what says Michael? There are fewWhose memoirs could be rendered more divine.Mine is a pen of all work; not so newAs it was once, but I would make you shine805Like your own trumpet. By the way, my ownHas more of brass in it, and is as well blown.

"But talking about trumpets, here's my 'Vision!'Now you shall judge, all people--yes--you shallJudge with my judgment! and by my decision810Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall.I settle all these things by intuition,Times present, past, to come--Heaven--Hell--and all,Like King Alfonso. When I thus see double,I save the Deity some worlds of trouble."815

He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and noPersuasion on the part of Devils, Saints,Or Angels, now could stop the torrent; soHe read the first three lines of the contents:But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show820Had vanished, with variety of scents,Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang,Like lightning, off from his "melodious twang."

Those grand heroics acted as a spell;The Angels stopped their ears and plied their pinions;825The Devils ran howling, deafened, down to Hell;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!830His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow!

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been knownFor an impetuous saint, upraised his keys,And at the fifth line knocked the poet down;Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease,835Into his lake, for there he did not drown;A different web being by the DestiniesWoven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'erReform shall happen either here or there.

He first sank to the bottom--like his works,840But soon rose to the surface--like himself;For all corrupted things are buoyed 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,845In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or "Vision,"As Welborn says--"the Devil turned precisian."

As for the rest, to come to the conclusionOf this true dream, the telescope is goneWhich kept my optics free from all delusion,850And showed me what I in my turn have shown;All I saw farther, in the last confusion,Was, that King George slipped into Heaven for one;And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,I left him practising the hundredth psalm.855