XCVI

He said (I only give the heads)—he said,

He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his way Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread,

Of which he butter'd both sides; 'twould delay Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), And take up rather more time than a day,

To name his works-he would but cite a few

66

Wat Tyler 'Rhymes on Blenheim "-" Waterloo."

XCVII

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 cried

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever;

Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin-

770

Had turn'd his coat-and would have turn'd his skin.

XCVIII

He had sung against all battles, and again

In their high praise and glory; he had call'd Reviewing "the ungentle craft," and then Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd

Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men

780

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose, And more of both than anybody knows.

XCIX

He had written Wesley's life :-here turning round To Satan, "Sir, I'm ready to write yours,

In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,

With notes and preface, all that most allures
The pious purchaser; and there's no ground
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:
So let me have the proper documents,
That I may add you to my other saints,"

790

"Well, if you,

C

Satan bow'd, and was silent.

With amiable modesty, decline

My offer, what says Michael? There are few
Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine.
Mine is a pen of all work; not so new

As it was once, but I would make you shine
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.

ΟΙ

66 But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision!
Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision
Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall.

I settle all these things by intuition,

800

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."

CII

He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no
Persuasion on the part of devils, saints,

Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so
He read the first three lines of the contents;
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show
Had vanish'd, with variety of scents,
Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang,
Like lightning, off from his " melodious twang."

66

CIII

Those grand heroics acted as a spell;

810

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions; The devils ran howling, deafen'd, 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! His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow!

821

CIV

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

CV

He first sank to the bottom-like his works,
But soon rose to the surface-like himself;
For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks,
By their own rottenness, light as an elf,
Or wisp that flits o'er a morass he lurks,

66

830

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, In his own den, to scrawl some Life or Vision," As Welborn says-" the devil turn'd precisian."

CVI

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone
Which kept my optics free from all delusion,

And show'd me what I in my turn have shown;

All I saw farther, in the last confusion,

841

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one; And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,

1 left him practising the hundredth psalm.

NOT in those climes where I have late been straying, Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd ;

Not in those visions to the heart displaying

Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek

To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd-
To such as see thee not my words were weak;

To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak?

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, Love's image upon earth without his wing, And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! And surely she who now so fondly rears Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, Beholds the rainbow of her future years, Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. Young Peri of the West!-'tis well for me My years already doubly number thine; My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign

To those whose admiration shall succeed,

ΙΟ

20

But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed.

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's,
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh
Could I to thee be ever more than friend :

This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why
To one so young my strain I would commend,
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:
My days once number'd, should this homage past
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre

Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast,
Such is the most my memory maý desire;

30

40

Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require ?

CHILDE HAROLD

FROM CANTO I, i-xi

Он, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,
Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill;
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine
To grace so plain a tale—this lowly lay of mine.

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth,
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;
But spent his days in riot most uncouth,
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.

ΤΟ