Who 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."

XC.

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which
By no means often was his case below,
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch
His voice into that awful note of woe
To all unhappy hearers within reach

Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow;
But stuck fast with his first hexameter,
Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir.

XCI.

But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd
Into recitative, in great dismay,

Both cherubim and seraphim were heard

To murmur loudly through their long array ;
And Michael rose ere he could get a word

Of all his founder'd verses under way,

And cried, "For God's sake, stop, my friend; 'twere bestNon Di, non homines-you know the rest."

XCII.

A general bustle spread throughout the throng,
Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation ;
The angels had of course enough of song
When upon service; and the generation

Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long
Before, to profit by a new occasion :

The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, "What! what!
Pye* come again? No more-no more of that !"

XCIII.

The tumult grew; a universal cough

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate,
When 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 pray'd to interpose

(Himself an author) only for his prose.

XCIV.

The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave;

A good deal like a vulture in the face,

With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace

• George the Third's Poet Laureate; cartainly the meanest that aver received the hundred marks and the butt of wine.

To 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."

XOV.

Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise
With one still greater, as is yet the mode
On earth besides; except some grumbling voice,
Which now and then will reate a slight inroad
Upon decorous silence, few will twice

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd;
And now the bard could plead his own bad cause,
With all the attitudes of self-applause.

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-
"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

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 o'er crawl'd-

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

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

• See "Life of Henry Kirke White."

The pious purchaser; and there's no ground
For fer, for I can choose my own reviewers:
So let me have the proper documents,

That I may add you to my other saints."

C.

Satan bow'd, and was silent. "Well, if you,
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.

CI.

"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,

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, or 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."+

CIII.

Those grand heroics acted as a spell;

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions;
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell;

The ghosts fled, gibbering, ior 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!

Saint Peter, who nas hitherto been known
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys,
And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down;

Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease,

Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolemean system, said, that, "had he been consulted as the creation of the world, he would have spared the Maker some absurdities."

+ See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeared "with a curious perfume And a most melodious twang;" or see the Antiquary, vol. i. p. 225.

lato his lake, for there he did not drown;

A different web being by the Destinies
Wovon 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,

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 further, in the last confusion,

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

I left him practising the hundredth psalm.

A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten; it then floats, as most people known,

HEAVEN AND EARTH:

A Mystery,

FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS,

CHAP. VI.

"And it came to pass.... that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that theyj were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose."

“And wɔman wailing for her demon lover."—Coleridge,

Bramatis Personæ.

ANGELS.

SAMIASA, AZAZIEL, RAPHAEL, the Archangel.
MEN.

NOAH and his SONS-IRAD and JAPHET.

Chorus of Spirits of the Earth-Chorus of Mortals.

PART I.-SCENE I.

A woody and mountainous district near Mount Ararat.
Time, Midnight.

Enter ANAH and AHOLIBAMAH.

Anah. Our father sleeps: it is the hour when they
Who love us are accustom'd to descend

Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat:

How my heart beats!

Aho.

Our invocation.

Anak.

I tremble.

Aho.

Let us proceed upon

But the stars are hidden.

So do I, but not with fear

My sister, though

Of aught save their delay.
Anah.

I love Azaziel more than-oh, too much!

What was I going to say? my heart grows impious.
Aho. And where is the impiety of loving
Celestial natures?

Anah.

I love our God less since
This cannot be of good;

But, Aholibamah,
His angel loved me:
and though I know not