So in his Country's dying face He looked and lovely as she lay, With hardened sneer he turned away: And coolly to his own soul said ;— "My wife wants one.-Let who will bury And so his Soul would not be gay, But moaned within him; like a fawn As troubled skies stain waters clear, The storm in Peter's heart and mind For he now raved enormous folly, Of Baptisms, Sunday-schools, and Graves, agonising death of a number of trout, in the fourth part of a long poem in blank verse, published within a few years. That poem contains curious evidence of the gradual hardening of a strong but circumscribed sensibility, of the perversion of a penetrating but panic-stricken understanding. The author might have derived a lesson which he had probably forgotten from these sweet and sublime verses. This lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she' shows and what conceals, 1 Nature. Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse "He was a man, too great to scan ;- As soon as he read that, cried Peter, Then Peter wrote odes to the Devil;- May Rapine and Famine, Thy gorge ever cramming, Glut thee with living and dead! "May death and damnation, Flit up from hell with pure intent! Glasgow, Leeds, and Chester; Drench all with blood from Avon to Trent. "Let thy body-guard yeomen Hew down babes and women, And laugh with bold triumph till Heaven be rent, Munched children with fury, It was thou, Devil, dining with pure intent." It is curious to observe how often extremes meet. Cobbett and Peter use the same language for a different purpose: Peter is indeed a sort of metrical Cobbett. Cobbett is, however, more mischievous than Peter, because he pollutes a holy and now unconquerable cause with the principles of legitimate murder; whilst the other only makes a bad one ridiculous and odious. If either Peter or Cobbett should see this note, each will feel more indignation at being compared to the other than at any censure implied in the moral perversion laid to their charge. PART THE SEVENTH. DOUBLE DAMNATION. THE Devil now knew his proper cue.- " And said: "For money or for love, Pray find some cure or sinecure; To feed from the superfluous taxes, A friend of ours-a poet-fewer Have fluttered tamer to the lure Than he." His lordship stands and racks his Stupid brains, while one might count As many beads as he had boroughs,- "It happens fortunately, dear Sir, That he'll be worthy of his hire." These words exchanged, the news sent off The Devil's corpse was leaded down ; When Peter heard of his promotion, His eyes grew like two stars for bliss There was a bow of sleek devotion, Engendering in his back; each motion Seemed a Lord's shoe to kiss. He hired a house, bought plate, and made But a disease soon struck into The very life and soul of Peter- And yet a strange and horrid curse Peter was dull-he was at first Dull-O, so dull-so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsedStill with this dulness was he cursedDull-beyond all conception-dull. No one could read his books-no mortal, The parson came not near his portal; His state was like that of the immortal Described by Swift-no man could bear him. His sister, wife, and children yawned, All human patience far beyond; Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned. Anywhere else to be. But in his verse, and in his prose, A printer's boy, folding those pages, As opiates, were the same applied. Even the Reviewers who were hired To do the work of his reviewing, With adamantine nerves, grew tired ;Gaping and torpid they retired, To dream of what they should be doing. And worse and worse, the drowsy curse His servant-maids and dogs grew dull; The woods and lakes, so beautiful, All grew dull as Peter's self. The earth under his feet-the springs, The birds and beasts within the wood, Love's work was left unwrought-no brood And every neighbouring cottager his ears;-no man would stir To save a dying mother. Yet all from that charmed district went Who rather than pay any rent, No bailiff dared within that space, For fear of the dull charm, to enter; A man would bear upon his face, The yawn of such a venture. |