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George Gordon Byron - The Vision Of Judgment
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I.
Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate: 
   His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
So little trouble had been given of late; 
   Not that the place by any means was full, 
But since the Gallic era `eight-eight` 
   The devils had ta`en a longer, stronger pull, 
And `a pull altogether,` as they say 
At sea--which drew most souls another way. 

II.
The angels all were singing out of tune, 
   And hoarse with having little else to do, 
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
   Or curb a runaway young star or two, 
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
   Broke out of bounds o`er th` ethereal blue, 
Splitting some planet with its playful tail, 
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 

III.
The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 
   Finding their charges past all care below; 
Terrestrial business fill`d nought in the sky 
   Save the recording angel`s black bureau; 
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
   With such rapidity of vice and woe, 
That he had stripp`d off both his wings in quills, 
And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

IV.
His business so augmented of late years, 
   That he was forced, against his will no doubt, 
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 
   For some resource to turn himself about, 
And claim the help of his celestial peers, 
   To aid him ere he should be quite worn out 
By the increased demand for his remarks: 
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. 

V.
This was a handsome board--at least for heaven; 
   And yet they had even then enough to do, 
So many conqueror`s cars were daily driven, 
   So many kingdoms fitted up anew; 
Each day too slew its thousands six or seven, 
   Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
They threw their pens down in divine disgust-- 
The page was so besmear`d with blood and dust. 

VI.
This by the way: `tis not mine to record 
   What angels shrink from: even the very devil 
On this occasion his own work abhorr`d, 
   So surfeited with the infernal revel: 
Though he himself had sharpen`d every sword, 
   It almost quench`d his innate thirst of evil. 
(Here Satan`s sole good work deserves insertion--
`Tis, that he has both generals in reveration.)  

VII.
Let`s skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
   Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 
And heaven none — they form the tyrant`s lease, 
   With nothing but new names subscribed upon`t; 
`Twill one day finish: meantime they increase, 
   `With seven heads and ten horns,` and all in front, 
Like Saint John`s foretold beast; but ours are born 
Less formidable in the head than horn. 

VIII.
In the first year of freedom`s second dawn 
   Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one 
Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
   Left him nor mental nor external sun: 
A better farmer ne`er brush`d dew from lawn, 
   A worse king never left a realm undone! 
He died — but left his subjects still behind, 
One half as mad — and t`other no less blind. 

IX.
He died! his death made no great stir on earth: 
   His burial made some pomp; there was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 
   Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion. 
For these things may be bought at their true worth; 
   Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 

X.
Form`d a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all 
   The fools who flack`s to swell or see the show, 
Who cared about the corpse? The funeral 
   Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 
There throbbed not there a thought which pierced the pall; 
   And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 
It seamed the mockery of hell to fold 
The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

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 parvenù! 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. 

XXI.
`But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
   There would have been a different tale to tell; 
The fellow-feeling in the saint`s beholders 
   Seems to have acted on them like a spell, 
And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
   Back on its trunk: it may be very well, 
And seems the custom here to overthrow 
Whatever has been wisely done below.` 

XXII.
The angel answer`d, `Peter! do not pout: 
   The king who comes has head and all entire, 
And never knew much what it was about-- 
   He did as doth the puppet--by its wire, 
And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt: 
   My business and your own is not to inquire 
Into such matters, but to mind our cue-- 
Which is to act as we are bid to do.` 

XXIII.
While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 
   Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
   Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, 
Or Thames, or Tweed), and `midst them an old man 
   With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
Seated their fellow traveller on a cloud. 

XXIV.
But bringing up the rear of this bright host 
   A Spirit of a different aspect waves 
His wings, like thunder-clou ds above some coast 
   Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss `d; 
   Fierce and unfathomable  thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face, 
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXV.
As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
   Ne`er to be enter`d more by him or Sin, 
With such a glance of supernatural  hate, 
   As made Saint Peter wish himself within; 
He potter`d with his keys at a great rate, 
   And sweated through his apostolic skin: 
Of course his perspiration  was but ichor, 
Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXIV.
The very cherubs huddled all together, 
   Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt 
A tingling to the top of every feather, 
   And form`d a circle like Orion`s belt 
Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither 
   His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 
With royal manes (for by many stories, 
And true, we learn the angels all are Tories.) 

XXVII.
As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
   Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
Flung over space an universal hue 
   Of many-colour` d flame, until its tinges 
Reach`d even our speck of earth, and made a new 
   Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
O`er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound, 
By Captain Parry`s crew, in `Melville`s Sound.` 

XXVIII.
And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
   A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 
Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
   Victorious from some world-o`erth rowing fight: 
My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
   With earthly likenesses, for here the night 
Of clay obscures our best conceptions,  saving 
Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 

XXIX.
`Twas the archangel Michael; all men know 
   The make of angels and archangels, since 
There`s scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
   From the fiends` leader to the angels` prince; 
There also are some altar-pieces , though 
   I really can`t say that they much evince 
One`s inner notions of immortal spirits; 
But let the connoisseurs  explain their merits. 

XXX.
Michael flew forth in glory and in good; 
   A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise; the portal past — he stood; 
   Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary — 
(I say young, begging to be understood 
   By looks, not years; and should be very sorry 
To state, they were not older than St. Peter, 
But merely that they seem`d a little sweeter. 

XXXI.
The cherubs and the saints bow`d down before 
   That arch-angelic  Hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 
   The aspect of a god; but this ne`er nursed 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 
   No thought, save for his Master`s service, durst 
Intrude, however glorified and high; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

XXXII.
He and the sombre, silent Spirit met — 
   They knew each other both for good and ill; 
Such was their power, that neither could forget 
   His former friend and future foe; but still 
There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
   In either`s eye, as if `twere less their will 
Than destiny to make the eternal years 
Their date of war, and their `champ clos` the spheres. 

XXXIII.
But here they were in neutral space: we know 
   From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 
A heavenly visit thrice a year or so; 
   And that the `sons of God`, like those of clay, 
Must keep him company; and we might show 
   From the same book, in how polite a way 
The dialogue is held between the Powers 
Of Good and Evil — but `twould take up hours. 

XXXIV.
And this is not a theologic tract, 
   To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, 
If Job be allegory or a fact, 
   But a true narrative; and thus I pick 
From out the whole but such and such an act 
   As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 
`Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 
And accurate as any other vision. 

XXXV.
The spirits were in neutral space, before 
   The gates of heaven; like eastern thresholds is 
The place where Death`s grand cause is argued o`er, 
   And souls despatch`d to that world or to this; 
And therefore Michael and the other wore 
   A civil aspect: though they did not kiss, 
Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 
There pass`d a mutual glance of great politeness. 

XXXVI.
The Archangel bow`d, not like a modern beau, 
   But with a graceful Oriental bend, 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 
   The heart in good men is supposed to tend; 
He turn`d as to an equal, not too low, 
   But kindly; Satan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXXVII.
He merely bent his diabolic brow 
   An instant; and then raising it, he stood 
In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
   Cause why King George by no means could or should 
Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
   Eternal, more than other kings, endued 
With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 
Who long have `paved hell with their good intentions.`  

XXXVIII.
Michael began: `What wouldst thou with this man, 
   Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill 
Hath he wrought since his mortal race began, 
   That thou cans`t claim him? Speak! and do thy will, 
If it be just: if in this earthly span 
   He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
His duties as a king and mortal, say, 
And he is thine; if not, let him have way.` 

XXXIX.
`Michael!` replied the Prince of Air, `even here, 
   Before the Gate of him thou servest, must 
I claim my subject: and will make appear 
   That as he was my worshipper in dust, 
So shall he be in spirit, although dear 
   To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 
Were of his weaknesses; yet on the throne 
He reign`d o`er millions to serve me alone. 

XL.
`Look to our earth, or rather mine; it was, 
   Once, more thy master`s: but I triumph not 
In this poor planet`s conquest; nor, alas! 
   Need he thou servest envy me my lot: 
With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
   In worship round him, he may have forgot 
Yon weak creation of such paltry things; 
I think few worth damnation save their kings,--

XLI.
`And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
   Assert my right as lord: and even had 
I such an inclination,  `twere (as you 
   Well know) superfluous;  they are grown so bad, 
That hell has nothing better left to do 
   Than leave them to themselves: so much more mad 
And evil by their own internal curse, 
Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 

XLII.
`Look to the earth, I said, and say again: 
   When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm 
Began in youth`s first bloom and flush to reign, 
   The world and he both wore a different form, 
And must of earth and all the watery plain 
   Of ocean call`d him king: through many a storm 
His isles had floated on the abyss of time; 
For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 

XLIII.
`He came to his sceptre young: he leaves it old: 
   Look to the state in which he found his realm, 
And left it; and his annals too behold, 
   How to a minion first he gave the helm; 
How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, 
   The beggar`s vice, which can but overwhelm 
The meanest of hearts; and for the rest, but glance 
Thine eye along America and France. 

XLIV.
`Tis true, he was a tool from first to last 
   (I have the workmen safe); but as a tool 
So let him be consumed. From out the past 
   Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass`d 
   Of sin and slaughter — from the Cæsar`s school, 
Take the worst pupil; and produce a reign 
More drench`d with gore, more cumber`d with the slain. 

XLV.
`He ever warr`d with freedom and the free: 
   Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
So that they utter`d the word "Liberty!" 
   Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose 
History was ever stain`d as his will be 
   With national and individual woes? 
I grant his household abstinence; I grant 
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want; 

XLVI.
`I know he was a constant consort; own 
   He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
All this is much, and most upon a throne; 
   As temperance, if at Apicius` board, 
Is more than at an anchorite`s supper shown. 
   I grant him all the kindest can accord; 
And this was well for him, but not for those 
Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

XLVII.
`The New World shook him off; the Old yet groans 
   Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
Completed: he leaves heirs on many thrones 
   To all his vices, without what begot 
Compassion for him — his tame virtues; drones 
   Who sleep, or despots who have not forgot 
A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 
Upon the thrones of earth; but let them quake! 

XLVIII.
`Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
   The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 
A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
   Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 
Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter! Cold 
   Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr`d 
The foe to Catholic participatio n 
In all the license of a Christian nation. 

XLIX.
`True! he allow`d them to pray God; but as 
   A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
Which would have placed them upon the same base 
   With those who did not hold the saints in awe.` 
But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
   And cried, `You may the prisoner withdraw: 
Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 
While I am guard, may I be damn`d myself! 

L.
`Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
   My office (and his no sinecure) 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 
   The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure!` 
`Saint!` replied Satan, `you do well to avenge 
   The wrongs he made your satellites endure; 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I`ll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven!` 

LI.
Here Michael interposed: `Good saint! and devil! 
   Pray, not so fast; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter! you were wont to be more civil! 
   Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescensio n to the vulgar`s level: 
   Event saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
Have you got more to say?`--`No.`--If you please 
I`ll trouble you to call your witnesses.` 

LII.
Then Satan turn`d and waved his swarthy hand, 
   Which stirr`d with its electric qualities 
Clouds farther off than we can understand, 
   Although we find him sometimes in our skies; 
Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
   In all the planets, and hell`s batteries 
Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 
As one of Satan`s most sublime inventions. 

LIII.
This was a signal unto such damn`d souls 
   As have the privilege of their damnation 
Extended far beyond the mere controls 
   Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station 
Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
   Of hell assign`d; but where their inclination 
Or business carries them in search of game, 
They may range freely--being damn`d the same. 

LIV.
They`re proud of this--as very well they may, 
   It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 
Stuck in their loins; or like to an `entré` 
   Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry.
I borrow my comparisons from clay, 
   Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 
Offended with such base low likenesses; 
We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LV.
When the great signal ran from heaven to hell--
   About ten million times the distance reckon`d 
From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
   How much time it takes up, even to a second, 
For every ray that travels to dispel 
   The fogs of London, through which, dimly beacon`d, 
The weathercocks  are gilt some thrice a year, 
If that the summer is not too severe; 

LVI.
I say that I can tell--`twas half a minute; 
   I know the solar beams take up more time 
Ere, pack`d up for their journey, they begin it; 
   But then their telegraph is less sublime, 
And if they ran a race, they would not win it 
   `Gainst Satan`s couriers bound for their own clime. 
The sun takes up some years for every ray 
To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 

LVII.
Upon the verge of space, about the size 
   Of half-a-crown , a little speck appear`d 
(I`ve seen a something like it in the skies 
   In the Ægean, ere a squall); it near`d, 
And growing bigger, took another guise; 
   Like an aërial ship it tack`d, and steer`d, 
Or was steer`d (I am doubtful of the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer;-- 

LVIII.
But take your choice): and then it grew a cloud; 
   And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud! No land e`er saw a crowd 
   Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these; 
They shadow`d with their myriads space; their loud 
   And varied cries were like those of wild geese 
(If nations may be liken`d to a goose), 
And realised the phrase of `hell broke loose.` 

LIX.
Here crash`d a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
   Who damn`d away his eyes as heretofore: 
There Paddy brogued, `By Jasus!`--`What`s your wull?` 
   The temperate Scot exclaim`d: the French ghost swore 
In certain terms I shan`t translate in full, 
   As the first coachman will; and `midst the roar, 
The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
`Our president is going to war, I guess.` 

LX.
Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane; 
   In short, an universal shoal of shades, 
From Otaheite`s isle to Salisbury Plain, 
   Of all climes and professions,  years and trades, 
Ready to swear against the good king`s reign, 
   Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades: 
All summon`d by this grand `subpoena,` to 
Try if kings mayn`t be damn`d like me or you. 

LXI.
When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
   As angels can; next, like Italian twilight, 
He turn`d all colours — as a peacock`s tail, 
   Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight 
In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 
   Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 
Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 

LXII.
Then he address`d himself to Satan: `Why — 
   My good old friend, for such I deem you, though 
Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
   I ne`er mistake you for a personal foe; 
Our difference is political, and I 
   Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
You know my great respect for you; and this 
Makes me regret whate`er you do amiss — 

LXIII.
`Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
   My call for witnesses? I did not mean 
That you should half of earth and hell produce; 
   `Tis even superfluous,  since two honest, clean 
True testimonies are enough: we lose 
   Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
The accusation and defence: if we 
Hear both, `twill stretch our immortality. ` 

LXIV.
Satan replied, `To me the matter is 
   Indifferent, in a personal point of view; 
I can have fifty better souls than this 
   With far less trouble than we have gone through 
Already; and I merely argued his 
   Late majesty of Britain`s case with you 
Upon a point of form: you may dispose 
Of him; I`ve kings enough below, God knows!` 

LXV.
Thus spoke the Demon (late call`d `multifaced` 
   By multo-scribbling Southey). `Then we`ll call 
One or two persons of the myriads placed 
   Around our congress, and dispense with all 
The rest,` quoth Michael: `Who may be so graced 
   As to speak first? there`s choice enough--who shall 
It be?` Then Satan answer`d, `There are many; 
But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any.` 

LXVI.
A merry, cock-eyed, curious-look ing sprite 
   Upon the instant started from the throng, 
Dress`d in a fashion now forgotten quite; 
   For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 
By people in the next world; where unite 
   All the costumes since Adam`s, right or wrong, 
From Eve`s fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 
Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 

LXVII.
The spirit look`d around upon the crowds 
   Assembled, and exclaim`d, `My friends of all 
The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds; 
   So let`s to business: why this general call? 
If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
   And `tis for an election that they bawl, 
Behold a candidate with unturn`d coat! 
Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote?` 

LXVIII.
`Sir,` replied Michael, `you mistake; these things 
   Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august; to judge of kings 
   Is the tribunal met: so now you know.` 
`Then I presume those gentlemen with wings,` 
   Said Wilkes, `are cherubs; and that soul below 
Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 
A good deal older — Bless me! is he blind?` 

LXIX.
`He is what you behold him, and his doom 
   Depends upon his deeds,` the Angel said; 
`If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
   Give licence to the humblest beggar`s head 
To lift itself against the loftiest.` — `Some,` 
   Said Wilkes, `don`t wait to see them laid in lead, 
For such a liberty — and I, for one, 
Have told them what I though beneath the sun.` 

LXX.
`Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
   To urge against him,` said the Archangel. `Why,` 
Replied the spirit, `since old scores are past, 
   Must I turn evidence? In faith, not I. 
Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 
   With all his Lords and Commons: in the sky 
I don`t like ripping up old stories, since 
His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

LXXI.
`Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
   A poor unlucky devil without a shilling; 
But then I blame the man himself much less 
   Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 
To see him punish`d here for their excess, 
   Since they were both damn`d long ago, and still in 
Their place below: for me, I have forgiven, 
And vote his "habeas corpus" into heaven.` 

LXXII.
`Wilkes,` said the Devil, `I understand all this; 
   You turn`d to half a courtier ere you died, 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 
   To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon`s ferry; you forget that his 
   Reign is concluded; whatso`er betide, 
He won`t be sovereign more: you`ve lost your labor, 
For at the best he will be but your neighbour. 

LXXIII.
`However, I knew what to think of it, 
   When I beheld you in your jesting way, 
Flitting and whispering round about the spit 
   Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 
With Fox`s lard was basting William Pitt, 
   His pupil; I knew what to think, I say: 
That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills; 
I`ll have him gagg`d — `twas one of his own bills. 

LXXIV.
`Call Junius!` From the crowd a shadow stalk`d, 
   And at the same there was a general squeeze, 
So that the very ghosts no longer walk`d 
   In comfort, at their own aërial ease, 
But were all ramm`d, and jamm`d (but to be balk`d, 
   As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees, 
Like wind compress`d and pent within a bladder, 
Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

LXXV.
The shadow came--a tall, thin, grey-hair`d figure, 
   That look`d as it had been a shade on earth; 
Quick in it motions, with an air of vigour, 
   But nought to mar its breeding or its birth; 
Now it wax`d little, then again grew bigger, 
   With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth; 
But as you gazed upon its features, they 
Changed every instant — to what, none could say. 

LXXVI.
The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
   Could they distinguish whose the features were; 
The Devil himself seem`d puzzled even to guess; 
   They varied like a dream — now here, now there; 
And several people swore from out the press 
   They knew him perfectly; and one could swear 
He was his father: upon which another 
Was sure he was his mother`s cousin`s brother: 

LXXVII.
Another, that he was a duke, or a knight, 
   An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife;  but the wight 
   Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds; though in full sight 
   He stood, the puzzle only was increased; 
The man was a phantasmagor ia in 
Himself — he was so volatile and thin. 

LXXVIII.
The moment that you had pronounce him one, 
   Presto! his face change`d and he was another; 
And when that change was hardly well put on, 
   It varied, till I don`t think his own mother 
(If that he had a mother) would her son 
   Have known, he shifted so from one to t`other; 
Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 
At this epistolary `Iron Mask.` 

LXXIX.
For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
   `Three gentlemen at once` (as sagely says 
Good Mrs. Malaprop); then you might deem 
   That he was not even one; now many rays 
Were flashing round him; and now a thick steam 
   Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days: 
Now Burke, now Tooke he grew to people`s fancies, 
And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 

LXXX.
I`ve an hypothesis — `tis quite my own; 
   I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 
   And injuring some minister or peer, 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown; 
   It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear! 
`Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI.
I don`t see wherefore letters should not be 
   Written without hands, since we daily view 
Them written without heads; and books, we see, 
   Are fill`d as well without the latter too: 
And really till we fix on somebody 
   For certain sure to claim them as his due, 
Their author, like the Niger`s mouth, will bother 
The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII.
`And who and what art thou?` the Archangel said. 
   `For that you may consult my title-page,`  
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade: 
   `If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it now.` — `Canst thou upbraid,` 
   Continued Michael, `George Rex, or allege 
Aught further?` Junius answer`d, `You had better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter: 

LXXXIII.
`My charges upon record will outlast 
   The brass of both his epitaph and tomb.` 
`Repent`st thou not,` said Michael, `of some past 
   Exaggeration ? something which may doom 
Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast 
   Too bitter — is it not so? — in thy gloom 
Of passion?` — `Passion!` cried the phantom dim, 
`I loved my country, and I hated him. 

LXXXIV.
`What I have written, I have written: let 
   The rest be on his head or mine!` So spoke 
Old `Nominis Umbra`; and while speaking yet, 
   Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
Then Satan said to Michael, `Don`t forget 
   To call George Washington, and John Horne Tooke, 
And Franklin;` — but at this time was heard 
A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr`d. 

LXXXV.
At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 
   Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
   His way, and look`d as if his journey cost 
Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 
   `What`s this?` cried Michael; `why, `tis not a ghost?` 
`I know it,` quoth the incubus; `but he 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXVI.
`Confound the renegado! I have sprain`d 
   My left wing, he`s so heavy; one would think 
Some of his works about his neck were chain`d. 
   But to the point; while hovering o`er the brink 
Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain`d), 
   I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 
And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 
No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXVII.
`The former is the devil`s scripture, and 
   The latter yours, good Michael: so the affair 
Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
   I snatch`d him up just as you see him there, 
And brought him off for sentence out of hand: 
   I`ve scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 
At least a quarter it can hardly be: 
I dare say that his wife is still at tea.` 

LXXXVIII.
Here Satan said, `I know this man of old, 
   And have expected him for some time here; 
A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
   Or more conceited in his petty sphere: 
But surely it was not worth while to fold 
   Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear: 
We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 
With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX.
`But since he`s here, let`s see what he has done.` 
   `Done!` cried Asmodeus, `he anticipates 
The very business you are now upon, 
   And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates, 
Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 
   When such an ass as this, like Balaam`s, prates?` 
`Let`s hear,` quoth Michael, `what he has to say; 
You know we`re bound to that in every way.` 

XC.
Now the bard, glad to get an audience which 
   By no means oft was his case below, 
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
   His voice into that awful note of woe 
To all unhappy hearers within reach 
   Of poets when the tide of rhyme`s in flow; 
But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 
Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 

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-look ing 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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