1. 'O that mine enemy had written A book!'—cried Job:—a fearful curse, If to the Arab, as the Briton, 460 'Twas galling to be critic-bitten:— The Devil to Peter wished no worse. 2. When Peter's next new book found vent, The Devil to all the first Reviews A copy of it slyly sent, 465 With five-pound note as compliment, And this short notice—'Pray abuse.' 3. Then seriatim, month and quarter, Appeared such mad tirades.—One said— 'Peter seduced Mrs. Foy's daughter, 470 Then drowned the mother in Ullswater, The last thing as he went to bed.' 4. Another—'Let him shave his head! Where's Dr. Willis?—Or is he joking? What does the rascal mean or hope, 475 No longer imitating Pope, In that barbarian Shakespeare poking?' 5. One more, 'Is incest not enough? And must there be adultery too? Grace after meat? Miscreant and Liar! 480 Thief! Blackguard! Scoundrel! Fool! hell-fire Is twenty times too good for you. 6. 'By that last book of yours WE think You've double damned yourself to scorn; We warned you whilst yet on the brink 485 You stood. From your black name will shrink The babe that is unborn.' 7. All these Reviews the Devil made Up in a parcel, which he had Safely to Peter's house conveyed. 490 For carriage, tenpence Peter paid— Untied them—read them—went half mad. 8. 'What!' cried he, 'this is my reward For nights of thought, and days, of toil? Do poets, but to be abhorred 495 By men of whom they never heard, Consume their spirits' oil? 9. 'What have I done to them?—and who IS Mrs. Foy? 'Tis very cruel To speak of me and Betty so! 500 Adultery! God defend me! Oh! I've half a mind to fight a duel. 10. 'Or,' cried he, a grave look collecting, 'Is it my genius, like the moon, Sets those who stand her face inspecting, 505 That face within their brain reflecting, Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune?' 11. For Peter did not know the town, But thought, as country readers do, For half a guinea or a crown, 510 He bought oblivion or renown From God's own voice in a review. 12. All Peter did on this occasion Was, writing some sad stuff in prose. It is a dangerous invasion 515 When poets criticize; their station Is to delight, not pose. 13. The Devil then sent to Leipsic fair For Born's translation of Kant's book; A world of words, tail foremost, where 520 Right—wrong—false—true—and foul—and fair As in a lottery-wheel are shook. 14. Five thousand crammed octavo pages Of German psychologics,—he Who his furor verborum assuages 525 Thereon, deserves just seven months' wages More than will e'er be due to me. 15. I looked on them nine several days, And then I saw that they were bad; A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise,— 530 He never read them;—with amaze I found Sir William Drummond had. 16. When the book came, the Devil sent It to P. Verbovale, Esquire, With a brief note of compliment, 535 By that night's Carlisle mail. It went, And set his soul on fire. 17. Fire, which ex luce praebens fumum, Made him beyond the bottom see Of truth's clear well—when I and you, Ma'am, 540 Go, as we shall do, subter humum, We may know more than he. 18. Now Peter ran to seed in soul Into a walking paradox; For he was neither part nor whole, 545 Nor good, nor bad—nor knave nor fool; —Among the woods and rocks 19. Furious he rode, where late he ran, Lashing and spurring his tame hobby; Turned to a formal puritan, 550 A solemn and unsexual man,— He half believed "White Obi". 20. This steed in vision he would ride, High trotting over nine-inch bridges, With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride, 555 Mocking and mowing by his side— A mad-brained goblin for a guide— Over corn-fields, gates, and hedges. 21. After these ghastly rides, he came Home to his heart, and found from thence 560 Much stolen of its accustomed flame; His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and lame Of their intelligence. 22. To Peter's view, all seemed one hue; He was no Whig, he was no Tory; 565 No Deist and no Christian he;— He got so subtle, that to be Nothing, was all his glory. 23. One single point in his belief From his organization sprung, 570 The heart-enrooted faith, the chief Ear in his doctrines' blighted sheaf, That 'Happiness is wrong'; 24. So thought Calvin and Dominic; So think their fierce successors, who 575 Even now would neither stint nor stick Our flesh from off our bones to pick, If they might 'do their do.' 25. His morals thus were undermined:— The old Peter—the hard, old Potter— 580 Was born anew within his mind; He grew dull, harsh, sly, unrefined, As when he tramped beside the Otter. 26. In the death hues of agony Lambently flashing from a fish, 585 Now Peter felt amused to see Shades like a rainbow's rise and flee, Mixed with a certain hungry wish. 27. So in his Country's dying face He looked—and, lovely as she lay, 590 Seeking in vain his last embrace, Wailing her own abandoned case, With hardened sneer he turned away: 28. And coolly to his own soul said;— 'Do you not think that we might make 595 A poem on her when she's dead:— Or, no—a thought is in my head— Her shroud for a new sheet I'll take: 29. 'My wife wants one.—Let who will bury This mangled corpse! And I and you, 600 My dearest Soul, will then make merry, As the Prince Regent did with Sherry,—' 'Ay—and at last desert me too.' 30. And so his Soul would not be gay, But moaned within him; like a fawn 605 Moaning within a cave, it lay Wounded and wasting, day by day, Till all its life of life was gone. 31. As troubled skies stain waters clear, The storm in Peter's heart and mind 610 Now made his verses dark and queer: They were the ghosts of what they were, Shaking dim grave-clothes in the wind. 32. For he now raved enormous folly, Of Baptisms, Sunday-schools, and Graves, 615 'Twould make George Colman melancholy To have heard him, like a male Molly, Chanting those stupid staves. 33. Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse On Peter while he wrote for freedom, 620 So soon as in his song they spy The folly which soothes tyranny, Praise him, for those who feed 'em. 34. 'He was a man, too great to scan;— A planet lost in truth's keen rays:— 625 His virtue, awful and prodigious;— He was the most sublime, religious, Pure-minded Poet of these days.' 35. As soon as he read that, cried Peter, 'Eureka! I have found the way 630 To make a better thing of metre Than e'er was made by living creature Up to this blessed day.' 36. Then Peter wrote odes to the Devil;— In one of which he meekly said: 635 'May Carnage and Slaughter, Thy niece and thy daughter, May Rapine and Famine, Thy gorge ever cramming, Glut thee with living and dead! 640 37. 'May Death and Damnation, And Consternation, Flit up from Hell with pure intent! Slash them at Manchester, Glasgow, Leeds, and Chester; 645 Drench all with blood from Avon to Trent. 38. 'Let thy body-guard yeomen Hew down babes and women, And laugh with bold triumph till Heaven be rent! When Moloch in Jewry 650 Munched children with fury, It was thou, Devil, dining with pure intent.
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