XII.

He had also dim recollections

Of pedlars tramping on their rounds; Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections Of saws, and proverbs; and reflections Old parsons make in burying-grounds.

XIII.

But Peter's verse was clear, and came
Announcing from the frozen hearth
Of a cold age, that none might tame
The soul of that diviner flame

It augured to the Earth.

XIV.

Like gentle rains, on the dry plains,
Making that green which late was gray,

Or like the sudden moon, that stains
Some gloomy chamber's window-panes
With a broad light like day.

XV.

For language was in Peter's hand
Like clay, while he was yet a potter;
And he made songs for all the land,
Sweet both to feel and understand,
As pipkins late to mountain Cotter.

A footman's yellow coat to wear,

Peter, too proud of heart, I fear,

Instantly gave the Devil warning.

XVII.

Whereat the Devil took offence,

And swore in his soul a great oath then,

"That for his damned impertinence,

He'd bring him to a proper sense

Of what was due to gentlemen!"—

THAT mine enemy had written

A book!"- cried Job:

fearful curse;

If to the Arab, as the Briton,

'Twas galling to be critic-bitten:— The Devil to Peter wished no worse.

a

II.

When Peter's next new book found vent,

The Devil to all the first Reviews

A copy of it slily sent,

With five-pound note as compliment,

And this short notice-"Pray abuse."

III.

Then seriatim, month and quarter,

Appeared such mad tirades. One said

-

"Peter seduced Mrs. Foy's daughter, Then drowned the mother in Ullswater, The last thing as he went to bed."

IV.

Another-"Let him shave his head!

Where's Doctor Willis? Or is he joking? What does the rascal mean or hope,

No longer imitating Pope,

In that barbarian Shakespeare poking?"

Once more,

V.

"Is incest not enough?

And must there be adultery too?

Grace after meat? Miscreant and Liar!

Thief! Blackguard! Scoundrel! Fool! Hell

fire

Is twenty times too good for you.

VI.

"By that last book of yours we think You've double damned yourself to scorn;

We warned

you whilst yet on the brink

You stood. From your black name will shrink The babe that is unborn."

VII.

All these Reviews the Devil made
Up in a parcel, which he had

Safely to Peter's house conveyed.

For carriage, tenpence Peter paid

Untied them-read them - went half mad.

VIII.

"What!" cried he, "this is my reward

For nights of thought, and days of toil?

Do poets, but to be abhorred

By men of whom they never heard,

Consume their spirits' oil?