by Lord Byron
A consequence of prayer, refused the law
Which would have placed them upon the same base
With those who did not hold the Saints in awe.”
But here Saint Peter started from his place
And cried, “You may the prisoner withdraw:
Ere Heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph,
While I am guard, may I be damned myself!
L.
“Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange
My office (and his is no sinecure)
Than see this royal Bedlam-bigot range
The azure fields of Heaven, of that be sure!”
“Saint!” replied Satan, “you do well to avenge
The wrongs he made your satellites endure;
And if to this exchange you should be given,
I’ll try to coax our Cerberus up to Heaven!”
LI.
Here Michael interposed: “Good Saint! and Devil!
Pray, not so fast; you both outrun discretion.
Saint Peter! you were wont to be more civil:
Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression,
And condescension to the vulgar’s level:
Even Saints sometimes forget themselves in session.
Have you got more to say?” — ”No.” — ”If you please,
I’ll trouble you to call your witnesses.”
LII.
Then Satan turned and waved his swarthy hand,
Which stirred with its electric qualities
Clouds farther off than we can understand,
Although we find him sometimes in our skies;
Infernal thunder shook both sea and land
In all the planets — and Hell’s batteries
Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions
As one of Satan’s most sublime inventions.
LIII.
This was a signal unto such damned souls
As have the privilege of their damnation
Extended far beyond the mere controls
Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station
Is theirs particularly in the rolls
Of Hell assigned; but where their inclination
Or business carries them in search of game,
They may range freely — being damned the same.
LIV.
They are proud of this — as very well they may,
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key
Stuck in their loins; or like to an “entré”
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry.
I borrow my comparisons from clay,
Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be
Offended with such base low likenesses;
We know their posts are nobler far than these.
LV.
When the great signal ran from Heaven to Hell —
About ten million times the distance reckoned
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 beaconed,
The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year,
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, packed up for their journey, they begin it;
But then their Telegraph is less sublime,
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.
LVII.
Upon the verge of space, about the size
Of half-a-crown, a little speck appeared
(I’ve seen a something like it in the skies
In the Ægean, ere a squall); it neared,
And, growing bigger, took another guise;
Like an aërial ship it tacked, and steered,
Or was steered (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 ere saw a crowd
Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these;
They shadowed with their myriads Space; their loud
And varied cries were like those of wild geese,
(If nations may be likened to a goose),
And realised the phrase of “Hell broke loose.”
LIX.
Here crashed a sturdy oath of stout John Bull,
Who damned away his eyes as heretofore:
There Paddy brogued “By Jasus!” — ”What’s your wull?”
The temperate Scot exclaimed: the French ghost swore
In certain terms I shan’t translate in full,
As the first coachman will; and ‘midst the war,
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
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 summoned by this grand “subpoena,” to
Try if kings mayn’t be damned like me or you.
LXI.
When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale,
As Angels can; next, like Italian twilight,
He turned all colours — as a peacock’s tail,
Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight
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 addressed himself to Satan: “Why —
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 political, and I
Trust that, whatever may occur below,
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;
‘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.
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
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 called “multifaced”
By multo-scribbling Southey). “Then we’ll call
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? th
ere’s choice enough — who shall
It be?” Then Satan answered, “There are many;
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,
Dressed in a fashion now forgotten quite;
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long
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 looked around upon the crowds
Assembled, and exclaimed, “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,
Behold a candidate with unturned 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
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.
“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,”
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,”
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 stories, since
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
To see him punished here for their excess,
Since they were both damned 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;
You turned 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,
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
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 gagged — ’twas one of his own Bills.
LXXIV.
“Call Junius!” From the crowd a shadow stalked.
And at the name there was a general squeeze,
So that the very ghosts no longer walked
In comfort, at their own aërial ease,
But were all rammed, and jammed (but to be balked,
As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees,
Like wind compressed and pent within a bladder,
Or like a human colic, which is sadder.
LXXV.
The shadow came — a tall, thin, grey-haired figure,
That looked as it had been a shade on earth;
Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour,
But nought to mark its breeding or its birth;
Now it waxed little, then again grew bigger,
With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth:
But as you gazed upon its features, they
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 seemed puzzled even to guess;
They varied like a dream — now here, now there;
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,
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;
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,
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.
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
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
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,
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 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, will bother
The world to say if there be mouth or author.
LXXXII.
“And who and what art thou?” the Archangel said.
“For t
hat 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
Aught further?” Junius answered, “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
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.
“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 Washington, and John Horne Tooke,
And Franklin;” — but at this time there was heard
A cry for room, though not a phantom stirred.
LXXXV.
At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid
Of Cherubim appointed to that post,
The devil Asmodeus 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.
LXXXVI.
“Confound the renegado! I have sprained
My left wing, he’s so heavy; 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 —
No less on History — than the Holy Bible.
LXXXVII.
“The former is the Devil’s scripture, and
The latter yours, good Michael: so the affair
Belongs to all of us, you understand.
I snatched 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.”
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,