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OCCASIONAL PIECES.

1814-1816.

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE;

AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY. (1)

THE Devil return'd to hell by two,
And he stay'd at home till five;

When he dined on some homicides done in ragoût,
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew-
And bethought himself what next to do,
"And," quoth he, "I'll take a drive.
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I'll see how my favourites thrive.

"And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer then"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,

I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.

But these will be furnished again and again,

And at present my purpose is speed;

To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.

"I have a state-coach at Carlton House,

A chariot in Seymour Place;

(1) ["I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished rhapsody, called "The Devil's Drive,' the notion of which I took from Porson's 'Devil's Walk.'" B. Diary, 1813.-" Of this strange, wild poem," says Moore, "the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and imagination, it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson."-E.]

VOL. X.

S

But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends
By driving my favourite pace :

And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.

"So now for the earth to take my chance."
Then up to the earth sprung he;

And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepp'd across the sea,

And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode.

But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
That he hover'd a moment upon his way
To look upon Leipsic plain;

And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,

And so soft to his ear was the cry

of despair,

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ;

And he gazed with delight from its growing height, Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,

Nor his work done half as well:

For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, That it blush'd like the waves of hell!

Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he: "Methinks they have here little need of me!”

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But the softest note that soothed his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue clear

eye

Of a maid by her lover lying —

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