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XCI-C
XCI
But ere the spavin`d dactyls could be spurr`d
Into recitative, in great dismay
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard
To murmur loudly through their long array:
And Michael rose ere he could get a word
Of all his founder`d verses under way.
And cried, `For God`s sake stop, my friend! `twere best —
Non Di, non homines —- you know the rest.`
XCII
A general bustle spread throughout the throng.
Which seem`d to hold all verse in detestation;
The angels had of course enough of song
When upon service; and the generation
Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long
Before, to profit by a new occasion;
The monarch, mute till then, exclaim`d, `What! What!
Pye come again? No more — no more of that!`
XCIII
The tumult grew; an universal cough
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate
When Castlereagh has been up long enough
(Before he was first minister of state,
I mean — the slaves hear now); some cried `off, off!`
As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate,
The bard Saint Peter pray`d to interpose
(Himself an author) only for his prose.
XCIV
The varlet was not an ill-favour`d knave;
A good deal like a vulture in the face,
With a hook nose and a hawk`d eye, which gave
A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave,
Was by no means so ugly as his case;
But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be,
Quite a poetic felony, `de se.`
XCV
Then Michael blew his trump, and still`d the noise
With one still greater, as is yet the mode
On earth besides; except some grumbling voice,
Which now and then will make a slight inroad
Upon decorous silence, few will twice
Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow`d;
And now the bard could plead his own bad cause,
With all the attitudes of self-applause.
XCVI
He said — (I only give the heads) — he said,
He meant no harm in scribbling; `twas his way
Upon all topics; `twas, besides, his bread,
Of which he butter`d both sides; `twould delay
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread),
And take up rather more time than a day,
To name his works — he would but cite a few —
`Wat Tyler` — `Rhymes on Blenheim` — `Waterloo.`
XCVII
He had written praises of a regicide:
He had written praises of all kings whatever;
He had written for republics far and wide;
And then against them bitterer than ever;
For pantisocracy he once had cried
Aloud, a scheme less moral than `twas clever;
Then grew a hearty anti-Jacobin —
Had turn`d his coat — and would have turn`d his skin.
XCVIII
He had sung against all battles, and again
In their high praise and glory; he had call`d
Reviewing (1)`the ungentle craft,` and then
Become as base a critic as e`er crawl`d —
Fed, paid, and pamper`d by the very men
By whom his muse and morals had been maul`d:
He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose,
And more of both than anybody knows.
XCIX
He had written Wesley`s life: — here turning round
To Satan, `Sir, I`m ready to write yours,
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,
With notes and preface, all that most allures
The pious purchaser; and there`s no ground
For fear, for I can choose my own reviews:
So let me have the proper documents,
That I may add you to my other saints.`
C
Satan bow`d, and was silent. `Well, if you,
With amiable modesty, decline
My offer, what says Michael? There are few
Whose memoirs could be render`d more divine.
Mine is a pen of all work; not so new
As it once was, but I would make you shine
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.
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