V. And he scorned them, and they scorned him; Did all that men of their own trim VI. Such were his fellow-servants; thus VII. He had a mind which was somehow VIII. He had as much imagination As a pint-pot;-he never could From which to dart his contemplation, IX. Yet his was individual mind, X. Thus though unimaginative- Of his mind's work, had made alive XI. But from the first 'twas Peter's drift XII. She laughed the while, with an arch smile, I love you well-but, if you please, XIII. ""Tis you are cold-for I not coy, Yield love for love, frank, warm and true; And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy His errors prove it-knew my joy More, learned friend, than you. XIV. "Bocca bacciata non perde ventura Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna :— So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might cure a Male prude, like you, from what you now endure, a Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna." XV. Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe, And smoothed his spacious forehead down With his broad palm;-'twixt love and fear, XVI. The Devil was no uncommon creature; XVII. He was that heavy, dull, cold thing, XVIII. Now he was quite the kind of wight - Good cheer-and those who come to share itAnd best East Indian madeira! XIX. It was his fancy to invite Men of science, wit, and learning, XX. And men of learning, science, wit, Think of some rotten tree, and sit Lounging and dining under it, XXI. And all the while, with loose fat smile, The willing wretch sate winking there, Believing 'twas his power that made That jovial scene and that all paid Homage to his unnoticed chair. XXII. Though to be sure this place was Hell; He was the Devil-and all theyWhat though the claret circled well, And wit, like ocean, rose and fell ?Were damned eternally. PART THE FIFTH. GRACE. I. AMONG the guests who often stayed II. He was a mighty poet-and A subtle-souled psychologist; But his own mind-which was a mist. III. This was a man who might have turned Hell into Heaven-and so in gladness A Heaven unto himself have earned; Trusted, and damned himself to madness. IV. He spoke of poetry, and how "Divine it was a light-a loveA spirit which like wind doth blow As it listeth, to and fro; A dew rained down from God above; V. "A power which comes and goes like dream, And which none can ever trace Heaven's light on earth-Truth's brightest beam." And when he ceased there lay the gleam VI. Now Peter, when he heard such talk, VII. At night he oft would start and wake In a wild measure songs to make VIII. And on the universal sky And the wide earth's bosom green, And the sweet, strange mystery |