"My wife wants one.-Let who will bury
This mangled corpse! And I and you,
My dearest soul, willthen 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
Woundeand 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, Chaunting 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 Repine 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 wth fury,
It was thou, Devil, dining with pure intent."
PART THE SEVENTH.
Double Damnation.
THE Devil now knew his proper cue,~
Soon as he read the ode, he drove
To his friend Lord Mac Murderchouse'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 be ads 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 ent oft
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 ;
Hisdecent 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-O, so dull—so very dull !
Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed-
Still with this dullness 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. Any where else to be.
But in his verse, and in his prose,
The essence of his dullness 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 br
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 sti
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!
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