1. Lo. Peter in Hell's Grosvenor Square, A footman in the Devil's service! And the misjudging world would swear 265 That every man in service there To virtue would prefer vice. 2. But Peter, though now damned, was not What Peter was before damnation. Men oftentimes prepare a lot 270 Which ere it finds them, is not what Suits with their genuine station. 3. All things that Peter saw and felt Had a peculiar aspect to him; And when they came within the belt 275 Of his own nature, seemed to melt, Like cloud to cloud, into him. 4. And so the outward world uniting To that within him, he became Considerably uninviting 280 To those who, meditation slighting, Were moulded in a different frame. 5. And he scorned them, and they scorned him; And he scorned all they did; and they Did all that men of their own trim 285 Are wont to do to please their whim, Drinking, lying, swearing, play. 6. Such were his fellow-servants; thus His virtue, like our own, was built Too much on that indignant fuss 290 Hypocrite Pride stirs up in us To bully one another's guilt. 7. He had a mind which was somehow At once circumference and centre Of all he might or feel or know; 295 Nothing went ever out, although Something did ever enter. 8. He had as much imagination As a pint-pot;—he never could Fancy another situation, 300 From which to dart his contemplation, Than that wherein he stood. 9. Yet his was individual mind, And new created all he saw In a new manner, and refined 305 Those new creations, and combined Them, by a master-spirit's law. 10. Thus—though unimaginative— An apprehension clear, intense, Of his mind's work, had made alive 310 The things it wrought on; I believe Wakening a sort of thought in sense. 11. But from the first 'twas Peter's drift To be a kind of moral eunuch, He touched the hem of Nature's shift, 315 Felt faint—and never dared uplift The closest, all-concealing tunic. 12. She laughed the while, with an arch smile, And kissed him with a sister's kiss, And said—My best Diogenes, 320 I love you well—but, if you please, Tempt not again my deepest bliss. 13. ''Tis you are cold—for I, not coy, Yield love for love, frank, warm, and true; And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy— 325 His errors prove it—knew my joy More, learned friend, than you. 14. 'Boeca bacciata non perde ventura, Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna:— So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might cure a 330 Male prude, like you, from what you now endure, a Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna. 15. Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe. And smoothed his spacious forehead down With his broad palm;—'twixt love and fear, 335 He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer, And in his dream sate down. 16. The Devil was no uncommon creature; A leaden-witted thief—just huddled Out of the dross and scum of nature; 340 A toad-like lump of limb and feature, With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled. 17. He was that heavy, dull, cold thing, The spirit of evil well may be: A drone too base to have a sting; 345 Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing, And calls lust, luxury. 18. Now he was quite the kind of wight Round whom collect, at a fixed aera, Venison, turtle, hock, and claret,— 350 Good cheer—and those who come to share it— And best East Indian madeira! 19. It was his fancy to invite Men of science, wit, and learning, Who came to lend each other light; 355 He proudly thought that his gold's might Had set those spirits burning. 20. And men of learning, science, wit, Considered him as you and I Think of some rotten tree, and sit 360 Lounging and dining under it, Exposed to the wide sky. 21. And all the while with loose fat smile, The willing wretch sat winking there, Believing 'twas his power that made 365 That jovial scene—and that all paid Homage to his unnoticed chair. 22. Though to be sure this place was Hell; He was the Devil—and all they— What though the claret circled well, 370 And wit, like ocean, rose and fell?— Were damned eternally.
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