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XI-XX
XI
So mix his body with the dust! It might
Return to what it must far sooner, were
The natural compound left alone to fight
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air;
But the unnatural balsams merely blight
What nature made him at his birth, as bare
As the mere million`s base unmarried clay —
Yet all his spices but prolong decay.
XII
He`s dead — and upper earth with him has done;
He`s buried; save the undertaker`s bill,
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone
For him, unless he left a German will:
But where`s the proctor who will ask his son?
In whom his qualities are reigning still,
Except that household virtue, most uncommon,
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.
XIII
`God save the king!` It is a large economy
In God to save the like; but if he will
Be saving, all the better; for not one am I
Of those who think damnation better still:
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I
In this small hope of bettering future ill
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction,
The eternity of hell`s hot jurisdiction.
XIV
I know this is unpopular; I know
`Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damned
For hoping no one else may ever be so;
I know my catechism; I know we`re caromed
With the best doctrines till we quite o`erflow;
I know that all save England`s church have shamm`d,
And that the other twice two hundred churches
And synagogues have made a damn`d bad purchase.
XV
God help us all! God help me too! I am,
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish,
And not a whit more difficult to damn,
Than is to bring to land a late-hook`d fish,
Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;
Not that I`m fit for such a noble dish,
As one day will be that immortal fry
Of almost everybody born to die.
XVI
Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,
And nodded o`er his keys; when, lo! there came
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late —
A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame;
In short, a roar of things extremely great,
Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim;
But he, with first a start and then a wink,
Said, `There`s another star gone out, I think!`
XVII
But ere he could return to his repose,
A cherub flapp`d his right wing o`er his eyes —
At which St. Peter yawn`d, and rubb`d his hose:
`Saint porter,` said the angel, `prithee rise!`
Waving a goodly wing, which glow`d, as glows
An earthly peacock`s tail, with heavenly dyes;
To which the saint replied, `Well, what`s the matter?
`Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?`
XVIII
`No,` quoth the cherub; `George the Third is dead.`
`And who is George the Third?` replied the apostle;
`What George? what Third?` `The king of England,` said
The angel. `Well, he won`t find kings to jostle
Him on his way; but does he wear his head?
Because the last we saw here had a tussle,
And ne`er would have got into heaven`s good graces,
Had he not flung his head in all our faces.
XIX
`He was, if I remember, king of France;
That head of his, which could not keep a crown
On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance
A claim to those of martyrs — like my own:
If I had had my sword, as I had once
When I cut ears off, I had cut him down;
But having but my keys, and not my brand,
I only knock`d his head from out his hand.
XX
`And then he set up such a headless howl,
That all the saints came out and took him in;
And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl;
That fellow Paul— the parvenů! The skin
Of St. Bartholomew, which makes his cowl
In heaven, and upon earth redeem`d his sin,
So as to make a martyr, never sped
Better than did this weak and wooden head.
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