The Works of Lord Byron Volume IV Part 89

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem-- "Three gentlemen at once"[541] (as sagely says Good Mrs. Malaprop); then you might deem That he was not even _one_; now many rays Were flas.h.i.+ng round him; and now a thick steam 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.

Lx.x.x.

I've an hypothesis--'tis quite my own; I never let it out till now, for fear 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,[hm]

Was _really--truly_--n.o.body at all.

Lx.x.xI.

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 filled as well without the latter too: And really till we fix on somebody For certain sure to claim them as his due, Their author, like the Niger's mouth,[542] will bother The world to say if _there_ be mouth or author.

Lx.x.xII.

"And who and what art thou?" the Archangel said.

"For _that_ you may consult my t.i.tle-page,"[543]

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 Aught further?" Junius answered, "You had better First ask him for _his_ answer to my letter:

Lx.x.xIII.

"My charges upon record will outlast[hn]

The bra.s.s of both his epitaph and tomb."

"Repent'st thou not," said Michael, "of some past Exaggeration? something which may doom Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast Too bitter--is it not so?--in thy gloom Of pa.s.sion?"--"Pa.s.sion!" cried the phantom dim, "I loved my country, and I hated him.

Lx.x.xIV.

"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 To call George Was.h.i.+ngton, and John Horne Tooke, And Franklin;"[544]--but at this time there was heard A cry for room, though not a phantom stirred.

Lx.x.xV.

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid Of Cherubim appointed to that post, The devil Asmodeus[545] to the circle made His way, and looked 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 Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me.

Lx.x.xVI.

"Confound the renegado![546] I have sprained My left wing, he's so heavy;[547] one would think Some of his works about his neck were chained.

But to the point; while hovering o'er the brink Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rained), I saw a taper, far below me, wink, And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel--[ho]

No less on History--than the Holy Bible.

Lx.x.xVII.

"The former is the Devil's scripture, and The latter yours, good Michael: so the affair Belongs to all of us, you understand.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed 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-- At least a quarter it can hardly be: I dare say that his wife is still at tea."[548]

Lx.x.xVIII.

Here Satan said, "I know this man of old, And have expected him for some time here; A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 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.

Lx.x.xIX.

"But since he's here, let's see what he has done."

"Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he antic.i.p.ates The very business you are now upon, And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates.[hp]

Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, When such an a.s.s[549] 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, 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;[550]

But stuck fast with his first hexameter, Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir.

XCI.

But ere the spavined dactyls could be spurred Into recitative, in great dismay Both Cherubim and Seraphim were heard To murmur loudly through their long array; And Michael rose ere he could get a word Of all his foundered verses under way, And cried, "For G.o.d's sake stop, my friend! 'twere best--[551]

'_Non Di, non homines_'--you know the rest."[552]

XCII.

A general bustle spread throughout the throng, Which seemed 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: The Monarch, mute till then, exclaimed, "What! what![553]

_Pye_[554] come again? No more--no more of that!"

XCIII.

The tumult grew; an universal cough Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, When Castlereagh has been up long enough (Before he was first minister of state, I mean--the _slaves hear now_); some cried "Off, off!"

As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate, The Bard Saint Peter prayed to interpose (Himself an author) only for his prose.

XCIV.

The varlet was not an ill-favoured knave;[hq][555]

A good deal like a vulture in the face, With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, Was by no means so ugly as his case; But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be, Quite a poetic felony "_de se_."

XCV.

Then Michael blew his trump, and stilled the noise With one still greater, as is yet the mode On earth besides; except some grumbling voice, Which now and then will make a slight inroad Upon decorous silence, few will twice Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrowed; And now the Bard could plead his own bad cause, With all the att.i.tudes of self-applause.

XCVI.

He said--(I only give the heads)--he said, He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his way Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread, Of which he b.u.t.tered both sides; 'twould delay Too long the a.s.sembly (he was pleased to dread), And take up rather more time than a day, To name his works--he would but cite a few--[hr]

"Wat Tyler"--"Rhymes on Blenheim"--"Waterloo."[556]

XCVII.

He had written praises of a Regicide;[557]

He had written praises of all kings whatever; He had written for republics far and wide, And then against them bitterer than ever; For pantisocracy he once had cried[558]

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever; Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin-- Had turned his coat--and would have turned his skin.

XCVIII.