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

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.] S

VOL. X.

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

*

!"

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 eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying —

As round her fell her long fair hair;

And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air,

Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!

And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,

With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,
A child of famine dying:

And the carnage begun, when resistance is done
And the fall of the vainly flying!

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?

If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day :

But he made a tour, and kept a journal

Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,

And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, Who bid pretty well-but they cheated him, though'

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,

Its coachman and his coat;

So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,

And seized him by the throat :

"Aha!" quoth he, "what have we here? 'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!

So he sat him on his box again,

And bade him have no fear,

But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein,
His brothel, and his beer;

"Next to seeing a lord at the council board,

I would rather see him here."

The Devil gat next to Westminster,

And he turn'd to "the room" of the Commons; But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, That" the Lords" had received a summons; And he thought, as a "quondam aristocrat," He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;

And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,

The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk a man of some size
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes,
Because the Catholics would not rise,

In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard-which set Satan himself a staring-
A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing.
And the Devil was shock'd—and quoth he, "I must
For I find we have much better manners below: [go,
If thus he harangues when he passes my border,
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order."

WINDSOR POETICS.

Lines composed on the occasion of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles L., in the royal vault at Windsor.

FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;

Between them stands another sceptred thing-
It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king:

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,

-In him the double tyrant starts to life: Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain, Each royal vampire wakes to life again.

Ah, what can tombs avail !—since these disgorge The blood and dust of both to mould a George.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

["I SPEAK NOT, I TRACE NOT," &c.] (1)

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: But the tear which now burns on my cheek may

impart

The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

cease?

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace Were those hours. can their joy or their bitterness [chain,We repent-we abjure-we will break from our We will part, we will fly to-unite it again!

(1) ["Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase."— Lord B. to Mr. Moore. May 10. 1814.]