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Of what beyond these things may lie,

And yet remain unseen.

For in his thought he visited

The spots in which, ere dead and damned,
He his wayward life had led;
Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed,

Which thus his fancy crammed.


And these obscure remembrances

Stirred such harmony in Peter, That whensoever he should please, He could speak of rocks and trees

In poetic metre.

For though it was without a sense

Of memory, yet he remembered well
Many a ditch and quick-set fence;
Of lakes he had intelligence,

He knew something of heath, and fell.

He had also dim recollections

Of pedlars tramping on their rounds;
Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections
Of saws, and proverbs; and reflexions

Old parsons make in burying-grounds.


But Peter's verse was clear, and came

Announcing from the frozen hearth Of a cold age, that none might tame The soul of that diviner flame

It augured to the Earth ;

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Like gentle rains, on the dry plains,

Making that green which late was grey,
Or like the sudden moon, that stains
Some gloomy chamber's window panes

With a broad light like day.

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For language was in Peter's hand,

Like clay, while he was yet a potter; And he made songs for all the land, Sweet both to feel and understand,

As pipkins late to mountain Cotter.


And Mr. — , the bookseller,

Gavetwenty pounds for some;—then scorning A footman's yellow coat to wear, Peter, too proud of heart, I fear,

Instantly gave the Devil warning.

XVII. Whereat the Devil took offence,

And swore in his soul a great oath then, “ That for his damned impertinence, He'd bring him to a proper sense

Of what was due to gentlemen !” —

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If to the Arab, as the Briton,
'Twas galling to be critic-bitten :-

The Devil to Peter wished no worse.

When Peter's next new book found vent,

The Devil to all the first Reviews
A copy of it slily sent,
With five-pound note as compliment,

And this short notice—“ Pray abuse.”


Then seriatim, month and quarter,

Appeared such mad tirades.—One said, “ Peter seduced Mrs. Foy's daughter, Then drowned the mother in Ullswater,

The last thing as he went to bed.”


Another—“Let him shave his head !

Where's Dr. Willis ?—Or is he joking ?
What does the rascal mean or hope,
No longer imitating Pope,

In that barbarian Shakespeare poking ?”

One more, “Is incest not enough?

And must there be adultery too? Grace after meat ? Miscreant and Liar ! Thief! Blackguard ! Scoundrel ! Fool! Hell-fire

Is twenty times too good for you.


“By that last book of yours we think

You've double damned yourself to scorn; We warned you whilst yet on the brink You stood. From your black name will shrink

The babe that is unborn.”

All these Reviews the Devil made

Up in a parcel, which he had
Safely to Peter's house conveyed.
For carriage, ten-pence Peter paid

Untied them-read them-went half mad.


“ What !” cried he, “this is my reward

For nights of thought, and days of toil? Do poets, but to be abhorred By men of whom they never heard, Consume their spirits' oil ?

IX. What have I done to them ?-and who

Is Mrs. Foy? 'Tis very cruel To speak of me and Emma' so! Adultery! God defend me! Oh!

I've half a mind to fight a duel.

“Or,” cried he, a grave look collecting,

“Is it my genius, like the moon,
Sets those who stand her face inspecting,
That face within their brain reflecting,

Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune ?”

For Peter did not know the town,

But thought, as country readers do, i Shelley instructed his publisher (see Shelley Memorials, pp. 138-9) to read Betty for Emma as the name of Peter's sister. “Emma,” he says, “I recollect, is the real name of the sister of a great poet who might be mistaken for Peter.” Betty, being the name of Mrs. Foy, was not a fortunate name to substitute ; and, when the poem was published in 1839, Mrs. Shelley gave the name as Emma.-ED.

For half a guinea or a crown,
He bought oblivion or renown

From God's own voice in a review.

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All Peter did on this occasion

Was, writing some sad stuff in prose.
It is a dangerous invasion
When poets criticize; their station

Is to delight, not pose.


The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair,

For Born's translation of Kant's book;
A world of words, tail foremost, where
Right-wrong-false--true—and foul—and

As in a lottery-wheel are shook.


Five thousand crammed octavo pages

Of German psychologics, --he Who his furor verborum assuages Thereon, deserves just seven months' wages

More than will e'er be due to me.

I looked on them nine several days,

And then I saw that they were bad;
A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise,-
He never read them ;—with amaze

I found Sir William Drummond had.

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? Vox populi, vox dei. As Mr. Godwin truly observes of a more famous saying, of some merit as a popular maxim, but totally destitute of philosophical accuracy.

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