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Selected Poems

Page 79

by Byron


  435

  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,

  440

  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,

  445

  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.

  LV II

  Upon the verge of space, about the size

  450

  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 aerial ship it tack’d, and steer’d,

  455

  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

  460

  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

  465

  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’n’t translate in full,

  470

  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,

  475

  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

  480

  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

  485

  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 –

  490

  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,

  495

  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;

  500

  ’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

  505

  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

  510

  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

  515

  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;

  520

  But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any.’

  LXVI

  A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking 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

  525

  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

  530

  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,

  535

  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

  540

  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

  545

  ‘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

  Gives license to the humblest beggar’s head

  To lift itself against the loftiest.’ – ‘Some,’

  550

  Said Wilkes, ‘don’t wait to see them laid in lead,

  For such a liberty – and I, for one,

  Have told them what I thought beneath the sun.’

  LXX

  ‘Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast

  To urge against him,’ said the Archangel. ‘Why,’

  555

  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 stori
es, since

  560

  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

  565

  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;

  570

  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; whatsoe’er betide,

  575

  He won’t be sovereign more: you’ve lost your labour,

  For at the best he will but be 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

  580

  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

  585

  ‘Call Junius!’ From the crowd a shadow stalk’d,

  And at the name there was a general squeeze,

  So that the very ghosts no longer walk’d

  In comfort, at their own aerial ease,

  But were all ramm’d, and jamm’d (but to be balk’d,

  590

  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;

  595

  Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour,

  But nought to mark 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

  600

  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;

  605

  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 knight,

  610

  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;

  615

  The man was a phantasmagoria in

  Himself – he was so volatile and thin.

  LXXVIII

  The moment that you had pronounced him one,

  Presto! his face changed, and he was another,

  And when that change was hardly well put on,

  620

  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

  625

  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

  630

  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

  635

  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

  640

  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:

  645

  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.

  650

  ‘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

  655

  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

  660

  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

  665

  ‘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

  670

  To call George Washington, and John Horne Tooke,

  And Franklin;’ – but at this time there 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,

  675

  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

  680

  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<
br />
  685

  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

  690

  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 –

  695

  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,

  700

  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

  705

  ‘But since he’s here, let’s see what he has done.’

  ‘Done!’ cried Asmodeus, ‘he anticipates

  The very business you’re now upon,

  And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates.

  Who knows to what his ribaldry may run,

  710

  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 often was his case below,

  715

  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,

  720

  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;

  725

  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,

  730

  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;

  735

  The monarch, mute till then, exclaim’d, ‘What! what!

 

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