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Of what beyond these things may lie,
And yet remain unseen.
The spots in which, ere dead and damned,
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.
Of memory, yet he remembered well
He knew something of heath, and fell.
Of pedlars tramping on their rounds;
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 ;
Like gentle rains, on the dry plains,
Making that green which late was grey,
With a broad light like day.
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 !” —
If to the Arab, as the Briton,
The Devil to Peter wished no worse.
The Devil to all the first Reviews
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 ?
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.”
Up in a parcel, which he had
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,
Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune ?”
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,
From God's own voice in a review.
All Peter did on this occasion
Was, writing some sad stuff in prose.
Is to delight, not pose.
The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair,
For Born's translation of Kant's book;
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.
And then I saw that they were bad;
I found Sir William Drummond had.
? 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.