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And he scorned them, and they scorned him ;

And he scorned all they did; and they
Did all that men of their own trim
Are wont to do to please their whim,

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.

He had as much imagination

As a pint-pot;-he never could
Fancy another situation,
From which to dart his contemplation,

Than that wherein he stood.

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Yet his was individual mind,

And new created all he saw
In a new manner, and refined
Those new creations, and combined

Them, by a master-spirit's law.

Thus—though unimaginative

An apprehension clear, intense,

Of his mind's work, had made alive
The things it wrought on; I believe

Wakening a sort of thought in sense.

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But from the first 'twas Peter's drift

To be a kind of moral eunuch,
He touched the hem of Nature's shift,
Felt faint--and never dared uplift

The closest, all-concealing tunic.

She laughed the while, with an arch smile,

And kissed him with a sister's kiss,
And said—“My best Diogenes,
I love you well—but, if you please,

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."

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Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe,

And smoothed his spacious forehead down

With his broad palm ;-'twixt love and fear,
He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer,

And in his dream sate down.


The Devil was no uncommon creature;

A leaden-witted thief-just huddled
Out of the dross and scum of nature;
A toad-like lump of limb and feature,

With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled. •

He was that heavy, dull, cold thing,

The spirit of evil well may be:
A drone too base to have a sting;
Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing,

And calls lust, luxury.

Now he was quite the kind of wight

Round whom collect, at a fixed æra,
Venison, turtle, hock, and claret,-
Good cheer—and those who come to share it-

And best East Indian madeira !

It was his fancy to invite

Men of science, wit, and learning,
Who came to lend each other light;
He proudly thought that his gold's might

Had set those spirits burning.

And men of learning, science, wit,

Considered him as you and I
Think of some rotten tree, and sit
Lounging and dining under it,

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.



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Among the guests who often stayed

Till the Devil's petits-soupers,
A man there came, fair as a maid,
And Peter noted what he said,

Standing behind his master's chair.


He was a mighty poet-and

A subtle-souled psychologist;
All things he seemed to understand,
Of old or new-of sea or land-

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 ;
But he in shadows undiscerned

Trusted,—and damned himself to madness.

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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.

At night he oft would start and wake

Like a lover, and began
In a wild measure songs to make
On moor, and glen, and rocky lake,

And on the heart of man

VIII. And on the universal sky

And the wide earth's bosom green,And the sweet, strange mystery

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