Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse
On Peter while he wrote for freedom,
So soon as in his song they spy
The folly which soothes tyranny,
Praise him, for those who feed 'em.

"He was a man, too great to scan ;-
A planet lost in truth's keen rays:-
His virtue, awful and prodigious ;-
He was the most sublime, religious,
Pure-minded Poet of these days."

As soon as he read that, cried Peter,
"Eureka! I have found the way
To make a better thing of metre
Than e'er was made by living creature
Up to this blessed day."

"May death and damnation,
And consternation,

Flit up from hell with pure intent!
Slash them at Manchester,

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,
When Moloch in Jewry,

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 niurder; 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.—
Soon as he read the ode, he drove
To his friend Lord Mac Murderchouse's,
A man of interest in both houses,

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,—
At length replies; from his mean front,
Like one who rubs out an account,
Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows:

"It happens fortunately, dear Sir,
I can. I hope I need require
No pledge from you, that he will stir
In our affairs;-like Oliver,

That he'll be worthy of his hire."

These words exchanged, the news sent off
To Peter, home the Devil hied,—
Took to his bed; he had no cough,
No doctor,-meat and drink enough,-
Yet that same night he died.

The Devil's corpse was leaded down ;
His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf,
Mourning-coaches, many a one,
Followed his hearse along the town :--
Where was the Devil himself?

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
A genteel drive up to his door,
With sifted gravel neatly laid,-
As if defying all who said,
Peter was ever poor.

But a disease soon struck into

The very life and soul of Peter-
He walked about-slept-had the hue
Of health upon his cheeks-and few
Dug better-none a heartier eater

And yet a strange and horrid curse
Clung upon Peter, night and day,
Month after month the thing grew worse,
And deadlier than in this my verse,
I can find strength to say.

Peter was dull-he was at first
Dull-0, so dull-so very dull!
Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed-
Still with this dulness was he cursed-
Dull-beyond all conception-dull.

No one could read his books-no mortal
But a few natural friends, would hear him;
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,
With a long, slow, and drear ennui,

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,
The essence of his dulness was
Concentred and compressed so close,
"Twould have made Guatimozin doze
On his red gridiron of brass.

A printer's boy, folding those pages,
Fell slumbrously upon one side;
Like those famed seven who slept three ages.
To wakeful frenzy's vigil rages,

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
Yawned in him till it grew a pest-
A wide contagious atmosphere,

Creeping like cold through all things near;
A power to infect and to infest.

His servant-maids and dogs grew dull;
His kitten, late a sportive elf;

The woods and lakes, so beautiful,
Of dim stupidity were full,

All grew dull as Peter's self.

The earth under his feet-the springs,
Which lived within it a quick life,
The air, the winds of many wings,
That fan it with new murmurings,
Were dead to their harmonious strife.

The birds and beasts within the wood,
The insects, and each creeping thing,

Were now a silent multitude;

Love's work was left unwrought-no brood Near Peter's house took wing.

And every neighbouring cottager
Stupidly yawned upon the other:

No jack-ass brayed; no little cur

Cocked up his ears;-no man would stir
To save a dying mother.

Yet all from that charmed district went
But some half-idiot and half-knave,

Who rather than pay any rent,
Would live with marvellous content,
Over his father's grave.

No bailiff dared within that space,
For fear of the dull charm, to enter;

A man would bear upon his face,
For fifteen months, in any case,

The yawn of such a venture.

Seven miles above-below-around-
This pest of dulness holds its sway;
A ghastly life without a sound;
To Peter's soul the spell is bound-
How should it ever pass away?

LINES,

WRITTEN DURING THE CASTLEREAGH ADMINISTRATION,

CORPSES are cold in the tomb,

Stones on the pavement are dumb,
Abortions are dead in the womb,

And their mothers look pale-like the white shore
Of Albion, free no more.

Her sons are as stones in the way-
They are masses of senseless clay-
They are trodden and move not away,-

The abortion, with which she travaileth,
Is Liberty-smitten to death.

Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor,
For thy Victim is no redressor,

Thou art sole lord and possessor

Of her corpses, and clods, and abortions--they pave Thy path to the grave.

Hearest thou the festival din,

Of death, and destruction, and sin,

And wealth, crying Havoc! within

'Tis the Bacchanal triumph, which makes truth dumb, Thine Epithalamium.

Ay, marry thy ghastly wife!

Let fear, and disquiet, and strife
Spread thy couch in the chamber of life,
Marry Ruin, thou tyrant! and God be thy guide
To the bed of the bride.