55 I heard all this from the old woman.
Then there came down from Langdale Pike
A cloud with lightning, wind and hail;
It swept over the mountains like
An Ocean,—and I heard it strike
60 The woods and crags of Grasmere vale.
And I saw the black storm come
Nearer, minute after minute,
Its thunder made the cataracts dumb,
With hiss, and clash, and hollow hum
65 It neared as if the Devil was in it.
The Devil was in it:—he had bought
Peter for half a crown; and when
The storm which bore him vanished, nought
That in the house that storm had caught
70 Was ever seen again.
The gaping neighbours came next day—
They found all vanished from the shore:
The Bible, whence he used to pray
Half scorched under a hen-coop lay;
75 Smashed glass—and nothing more!
Part Second
The Devil
The Devil, I safely can aver,
Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;
Nor is he, as some sages swear,
A spirit, neither here nor there,
80 In nothing—yet in every thing.
He is—what we are; for sometimes
The Devil is a gentleman;
At others a bard bartering rhymes
For sack; a statesman spinning crimes,
85 A swindler, living as he can;
A thief who cometh in the night,
With whole boots and net pantaloons,
Like someone whom it were not right
To mention;—or the luckless wight
90 From whom he steals nine silver spoons.
But in this case he did appear
Like a slop-merchant from Wapping
And with smug face, and eye severe
On every side did perk and peer
95 Till he saw Peter dead or napping.
He had on an upper Benjamin
(For he was of the driving schism)
In the which he wrapped his skin
From the storm he travelled in,
100 For fear of rheumatism.
He called the ghost out of the corse;—
It was exceedingly like Peter,—
Only its voice was hollow and hoarse—
It had a queerish look of course—
105 Its dress too was a little neater.
The Devil knew not, his name and lot;
Peter knew not that he was Bell:
Each had an upper stream of thought
Which made all seem as it was not;
110 Fitting itself to all things well.
Peter thought he had parents dear,
Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies,
In the fens of Lincolnshire;
He perhaps had found them there
115 Had he gone and boldly shown his
Solemn phiz in his own village;
Where he thought, oft when a boy
He’d clombe the orchard walls to pillage
The produce of his neighbours’ tillage
120 With marvellous pride and joy.
And the Devil thought he had,
’Mid the misery and confusion
Of an unjust war, just made
A fortune by the gainful trade
125Of giving soldiers rations bad—
The world is full of strange delusion—
That he had a mansion planned
In a square like Grosvenor square,
That he was aping fashion, and
130That he now came to Westmorland
To see what was romantic there.
And all this, though quite ideal,—
Ready at a breath to vanish,—
Was a state not more unreal
135Than the peace he could not feel
Or the care he could not banish.
After a little conversation
The Devil told Peter, if he chose
He’d bring him to the world of fashion
140By giving him a situation
In his own service—and new clothes.
And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud,
And after waiting some few days
For a new livery—dirty yellow
145Turned up with black—the wretched fellow
Was bowled to Hell on the Devil’s chaise.
Part Third
Hell
Hell is a city much like London;—
A populous and a smoky city;
There are all sorts of people undone
150And there is little or no fun done;
Small justice shown, and still less pity.
There is a Castles, and a Canning,
A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh;
All sorts of caitiff corpses planning
155All sorts of cozening for trepanning
Corpses less corrupt than they.
There is a * * *, who has lost
His wits, or sold them, none knows which:
He walks about a double ghost,
160And though as thin as Fraud almost—
Ever grows more grim and rich.
There is a Chancery Court; a King;
A manufacturing mob; a set
Of thieves who by themselves are sent
165Similar thieves to represent;
An Army;—and a public debt.
Which last is a scheme of Paper money,
And means—being interpreted—
‘Bees keep your wax—give us the honey
170And we will plant while skies are sunny
Flowers, which in winter serve instead.’
There is great talk of Revolution—
And a great chance of Despotism—
German soldiers—camps—confusion—
175Tumults—lotteries—rage—delusion—
Gin—suicide and Methodism;
Taxes too, on wine and bread,
And meat, and beer, and tea, and cheese
From which those patriots pure are fed
180Who gorge before they reel to bed
The tenfold essence of all these.
There are mincing women, mewing,
(Like cats, who amant miserè,)*
Of their own virtue, and pursuing
185Their gentler sisters to that ruin,
Without which—what were chastity?†
Lawyers—judges—old hobnobbers
Are there—Bailiffs—Chancellors—
Bishops—great and little robbers—
190Rhymesters—pamphleteers—stock jobbers—
Men of glory in the wars,—
Things whose trade is, over ladies
To lean, and flirt, and stare, and simper,
Till all that is divine in woman
195Grows cruel, courteous, smooth, inhuman,
Crucified ’twixt a smile and whimper.
Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling,
Frowning, preaching—such a riot!
Each with never ceasing labour
200Whilst he thinks he cheats his neighbour
Cheating his own heart of quiet.
And all these, meet at levees;—
Dinners convivial and political;—
Suppers of epic poets;—teas,
205Where small talk dies in agonies;—
Breakfasts professional and critical;—
Lunches and snacks so aldermanic
That one would furnish forth ten dinners,
Where reigns a Cretan-tongued panic
210Lest news Russ, Dutch or Alemannic
Should make some losers, and some winners;—
At conversazioni—balls—
Conventicles and drawing-rooms—
Courts of law—committees—calls
215Of a morning—clubs—book stalls—
Churches—masquerades and tombs.
And th
is is Hell—and in this smother
All are damnable and damned;
Each one damning, damns the other;
220They are damned by one another,
By none other are they damned.
’Tis a lie to say, ‘God damns!’*
Where was Heaven’s Attorney General
When they first gave out such flams?
225Let there be an end of shams;
They are mines of poisonous mineral.
Statesmen damn themselves to be
Cursed; and lawyers damn their souls
To the auction of a fee:
230Churchmen damn themselves to see
God’s sweet love in burning coals.
The rich are damned beyond all cure
To taunt, and starve, and trample on
The weak, and wretched: and the poor
235Damn their broken hearts to endure
Stripe on stripe, with groan on groan.
Sometimes the poor are damned indeed
To take,—not means for being blest,—
But Cobbett’s snuff, revenge; that weed
240From which the worms that it doth feed
Squeeze less than they before possessed.
And some few, like we know who,
Damned—but God alone knows why—
To believe their minds are given
245To make this ugly Hell a Heaven;
In which faith they live and die.
Thus, as in a Town plague-stricken,
Each man be he sound or no
Must indifferently sicken;
250As when day begins to thicken
None knows a pigeon from a crow,—
So good and bad, sane and mad,
The oppressor and the oppressed;
Those who weep to see what others
255Smile to inflict upon their brothers;
Lovers, haters, worst and best;
All are damned—they breathe an air
Thick, infected, joy-dispelling:
Each pursues what seems most fair,
260Mining like moles, through mind, and there
Scoop palace-caverns vast, where Care
In throned state is ever dwelling.
Part Fourth
Sin
Lo! Peter in Hell’s Grosvenor square
A footman in the Devil’s service!
265And the misjudging world would swear
That every man in service there
To virtue would prefer vice.
But, Peter, though now damned, was not
What Peter was before damnation.
270Men oftentimes prepare a lot
Which ere it finds them, is not what
Suits with their genuine station.
All things that Peter saw and felt
Had a peculiar aspect to him;
275And when they came within the belt
Of his own nature, seemed to melt
Like cloud to cloud, into him.
And so the outward world uniting
To that within him, he became
280Considerably uninviting
To those, who meditation slighting,
Were moulded in a different frame.
And he scorned them, and they scorned him;
And he scorned all they did; and they
285Did all that men of their own trim
Are wont to do to please their whim,
Drinking, lying, swearing, play.
Such were his fellow servants: thus
His virtue, like our own, was built
290Too much on that indignant fuss
Hypocrite Pride stirs up in us
To bully out another’s guilt.
He had a mind which was somehow
At once circumference and centre
295Of all he might or feel or know;
Nothing went ever out, although
Something did ever enter.
He had as much imagination
As a pint-pot:—he never could
300Fancy another situation
From which to dart his contemplation,
Than that wherein he stood.
Yet his was individual mind,
And new-created all he saw
305In a new manner, and refined
Those new creations, and combined
Them by a master-spirit’s law,
Thus—though unimaginative,
An apprehension clear, intense,
310Of his mind’s work, had made alive
The things it wrought on; I believe
Wakening a sort of thought in sense.
But from the first ’twas Peter’s drift
To be a kind of moral eunuch;
315He touched the hem of Nature’s shift,
Felt faint—and never dared uplift
The closest, all-concealing tunic.
She laughed the while, with an arch smile,
And kissed him with a sister’s kiss,
320And said—‘My best Diogenes,
I love you well—but, if you please,
Tempt not again my deepest bliss.
‘’Tis you are cold—for I, not coy,
Yield love for love, frank, warm and true:
325And Burns, a Scottish Peasant boy,—
His errors prove it—knew my joy
More, learned friend, than you.
‘Bocca baciata non perde ventura
Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna:—
330So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might cure a
Male prude like you from what you now endure, a
Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe,
And smoothed his spacious forehead down
335With his broad palm:—’twixt love and fear,
He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer;
And in his dream sate down.
The Devil was no uncommon creature;
A leaden-witted thief—just huddled
340Out of the dross and scum of nature;
A toadlike lump of limb and feature,
With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled.
He was that heavy, dull, cold thing
The Spirit of Evil well may be:
345A drone too base to have a sting;
Who gluts, and limes his lazy wing,
And calls lust, luxury.
Now he was quite, the kind of wight
Round whom collect, at a fixed aera,
350Venison, turtle, hock and claret,—
Good cheer—and those who come to share it—
And best East Indian Madeira!
It was his fancy to invite
Men of science, wit and learning;
355Who came to lend each other light:—
He proudly thought that his gold’s might
Had set those spirits burning.
And men of learning, science, wit,
Considered him as you and I
360Think of some rotten tree, and sit
Lounging and dining under it,
Exposed to the wide sky.
And all the while, with loose fat smile
The willing wretch sat winking there,
365Believing ’twas his power that made
That jovial scene—and that all paid
Homage to his unnoticed chair.
Though to be sure this place was Hell;
He was the Devil—and all they—
370What though the claret circled well,
And wit, like ocean, rose and fell—
Were damned eternally.
Part Fifth
Grace
Among the guests who often staid
Till the Devil’s petit soupers,
375A man there came, fair as a maid,
And Peter noted what he said,
Standing behind his master’s chair.
He was a mighty poet—and
A subtle-souled Psychologist;
380All things he seemed to understand
Of old or new—of sea or land—
But his own mind—which was a mist.
This was a man who might have turned
Hell into Heaven—and so in gladness
385A Heaven unto himself have earned;
But he in shadows undiscerned
Trusted,—and damned himself to madness.
He spoke of Poetry, and how
‘Divine it was—a light—a love—
390A spirit which like wind doth blow
As it listeth, to and fro;
A dew rained down from God above,
‘A Power which comes and goes like dream,
And which none can ever trace—
395Heaven’s light on Earth—Truth’s brightest beam,’
And when he ceased there lay the gleam
Of those words upon his face.
Now Peter when he heard such talk
Would, heedless of a broken pate
400Stand like a man asleep, or baulk
Some wishing guest of knife or fork,
Or drop and break his master’s plate.
At night he oft would start and wake
Like a lover, and began
405In a wild measure songs to make
On moor, and glen, and rocky lake,
And on the heart of man;—
And on the universal sky;—
And the wide earth’s bosom green;—
410And the sweet, strange mystery
Of what beyond these things may lie,
And yet remain unseen.
For in his thought he visited
The spots in which, ere dead and damned,
415He his wayward life had led;
Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed
Which thus his fancy crammed.
And these obscure remembrances
Stirred such harmony in Peter,
420That whensoever he should please,
He could speak of rocks and trees