« PoprzedniaDalej »
And he scorned them, and they scorned him ;
And he scorned all they did; and they
Drinking, lying, swearing, play.
Such were his fellow-servants; thus
His virtue, like our own, was built Too much on that indignant fuss Hypocrite Pride stirs up in us
To bully one another's guilt.
He had a mind which was somehow
At once circumference and centre Of all he might or feel or know; Nothing went ever out, although
Something did ever enter.
As a pint-pot;-he never could
Than that wherein he stood.
Yet his was individual mind,
And new created all he saw
Them, by a master-spirit's law.
An apprehension clear, intense,
Of his mind's work, had made alive
Wakening a sort of thought in sense.
But from the first 'twas Peter's drift
To be a kind of moral eunuch,
The closest, all-concealing tunic.
And kissed him with a sister's kiss,
Tempt not again my deepest bliss.
XIII. “ 'Tis you are cold--for I not coy,
Yield love for love, frank, warm and true; And Burns, a Scottish peasant boyHis errors prove it-knew my joy
More, learned friend, than you.
“ 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 en
dure, a Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna."
Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe,
And smoothed his spacious forehead down
With his broad palm ;-'twixt love and fear,
And in his dream sate down.
The Devil was no uncommon creature;
A leaden-witted thief-just huddled
With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled. •
The spirit of evil well may be:
And calls lust, luxury.
Round whom collect, at a fixed æra,
And best East Indian madeira !
Men of science, wit, and learning,
Had set those spirits burning.
Considered him as you and I
Exposed to the wide sky.
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.
Among the guests who often stayed
Till the Devil's petits-soupers,
Standing behind his master's chair.
He was a mighty poet-and
A subtle-souled psychologist;
But his own mind—which was a mist.
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.
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;
“ 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
Of those words upon his face.
Now Peter, when he heard such talk,
Would, heedless of a broken pate, Stand like a man asleep, or baulk Some wishing guest of knife or fork,
Or drop and break his master's plate.
Like a lover, and began
And on the heart of man
VIII. And on the universal sky
And the wide earth's bosom green,And the sweet, strange mystery