LXXXVIII. Here Satan said, "I know this man of old, Or more conceited in his petty sphere: Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear: We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored With carriage) coming of his own accord. LXXXIX. "But since he's here, let's see what he has done." And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 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." Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which To all unhappy hearers within reach Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow; XCI. But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 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." 12 XCII. A general bustle spread throughout the throng, The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, "What! what! 13 XCIII. The tumult grew; an universal cough I mean the slaves hear now); some cried "Off, off!" The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave; But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be, XCV. Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd; XCVI. He said (I only give the heads)-he said, Of which he butter'd both sides; 'twould delay 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 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 any body knows. XCIX. He had written Wesley's life :-here turning round In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, With notes and preface, all that most allures C. Satan bow'd, and was silent. "Well, if you, 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! I settle all these things by intuition, Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, CII. He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no 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, 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! CIV. Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known A different web being by the Destinies CV, He first sank to the bottom-like his works, It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, CVI. As for the rest, to come to the conclusion And show'd me what I in my turn have shown; All I saw farther, 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. |