1. The Devil now knew his proper cue.— Soon as he read the ode, he drove To his friend Lord MacMurderchouse's, 655 A man of interest in both houses, And said:—'For money or for love, 2. 'Pray find some cure or sinecure; To feed from the superfluous taxes A friend of ours—a poet—fewer 660 Have fluttered tamer to the lure Than he.' His lordship stands and racks his 3. Stupid brains, while one might count As many beads as he had boroughs,— At length replies; from his mean front, 665 Like one who rubs out an account, Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows: 4. 'It happens fortunately, dear Sir, I can. I hope I need require No pledge from you, that he will stir 670 In our affairs;—like Oliver. That he'll be worthy of his hire.' 5. These words exchanged, the news sent off To Peter, home the Devil hied,— Took to his bed; he had no cough, 675 No doctor,—meat and drink enough.— Yet that same night he died. 6. The Devil's corpse was leaded down; His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf, Mourning-coaches, many a one, 680 Followed his hearse along the town:— Where was the Devil himself? 7. When Peter heard of his promotion, His eyes grew like two stars for bliss: There was a bow of sleek devotion 685 Engendering in his back; each motion Seemed a Lord's shoe to kiss. 8. He hired a house, bought plate, and made A genteel drive up to his door, With sifted gravel neatly laid,— 690 As if defying all who said, Peter was ever poor. 9. But a disease soon struck into The very life and soul of Peter— He walked about—slept—had the hue 695 Of health upon his cheeks—and few Dug better—none a heartier eater. 10. And yet a strange and horrid curse Clung upon Peter, night and day; Month after month the thing grew worse, 700 And deadlier than in this my verse I can find strength to say. 11. Peter was dull—he was at first Dull—oh, so dull—so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed— 705 Still with this dulness was he cursed— Dull—beyond all conception—dull. 12. No one could read his books—no mortal, But a few natural friends, would hear him; The parson came not near his portal; 710 His state was like that of the immortal Described by Swift—no man could bear him. 13. His sister, wife, and children yawned, With a long, slow, and drear ennui, All human patience far beyond; 715 Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned, Anywhere else to be. 14. But in his verse, and in his prose, The essence of his dulness was Concentred and compressed so close, 720 'Twould have made Guatimozin doze On his red gridiron of brass. 15. A printer's boy, folding those pages, Fell slumbrously upon one side; Like those famed Seven who slept three ages. 725 To wakeful frenzy's vigil—rages, As opiates, were the same applied. 16. Even the Reviewers who were hired To do the work of his reviewing, With adamantine nerves, grew tired;— 730 Gaping and torpid they retired, To dream of what they should be doing. 17. And worse and worse, the drowsy curse Yawned in him, till it grew a pest— A wide contagious atmosphere, 735 Creeping like cold through all things near; A power to infect and to infest. 18. His servant-maids and dogs grew dull; His kitten, late a sportive elf; The woods and lakes, so beautiful, 740 Of dim stupidity were full. All grew dull as Peter's self. 19. The earth under his feet—the springs, Which lived within it a quick life, The air, the winds of many wings, 745 That fan it with new murmurings, Were dead to their harmonious strife. 20. The birds and beasts within the wood, The insects, and each creeping thing, Were now a silent multitude; 750 Love's work was left unwrought—no brood Near Peter's house took wing. 21. And every neighbouring cottager Stupidly yawned upon the other: No jackass brayed; no little cur 755 Cocked up his ears;—no man would stir To save a dying mother. 22. Yet all from that charmed district went But some half-idiot and half-knave, Who rather than pay any rent, 760 Would live with marvellous content, Over his father's grave. 23. No bailiff dared within that space, For fear of the dull charm, to enter; A man would bear upon his face, 765 For fifteen months in any case, The yawn of such a venture. 24. Seven miles above—below—around— This pest of dulness holds its sway; A ghastly life without a sound; 770 To Peter's soul the spell is bound— How should it ever pass away?
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