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Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd 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 overcrow'd;
And now the Bard could plead his own bad cause,
With all the attitudes of self applause.


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 butter'd both sides; 'twould delay
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread),
And take up rather more time than a day,
To name his works-he would but cite a few-
Wat Tyler-Rhymes on Blenheim-Waterloo.

He had written praises of a regicide;

He had written praises of all kings whatever; He had written for republics, far and wide, And then against them, bitter than ever,

For pantisocracy he once had cried

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever;

Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin

Had turn'd his coat-and would have turn'd his skin.


He had sung against all battles, and again

In their high praise and glory; he had call'd

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Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men

By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose;

And more of both than any body knows.


He had written Wesley's life :-here, turning round

To Sathan, « Sir, I'm ready to write yours, << In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,

« With notes and preface, all that most allures « The pious purchaser, and there's no ground

« For fear, for I ean choose my own reviewers : << So let me have the proper documents, other saints. >>

<< That I may add you to my


Sathan bow'd, and was silent. « Well, if you,

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« With amiable modesty, decline

My offer, what says Michael? There are few

« Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. Mine is a pen of all work; not so new

« As it was once, but I would make you shine Like your own trumpet; by the way, my own <Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.


« But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision! « Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall Judge with my judgment ! and by my decision « Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall!

<< I settle all these things by intuition,

« Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, Like King Alfonso!* When I thus see double,

I save the Deity some worlds of trouble. »>

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King Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolomean system, said, that << had he been consulted at the creation of the world, he would have spared the Maker some absurdities. »



He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no
Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints,
Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so
He read the first three lines of the contents;
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show
Had vanish'd with variety of scents,
Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang,
Like lightning, off from his « melodious twang. »


Those grand heroics acted as a spell:


The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions; The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell; The ghosts fled gibbering, for their own dominions (For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, And I leave every man to his opinions); Michael took refuge in his trump-but lo! His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow!


Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys,
And at the fifth line knock'd the Poet down;
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease;
Into his lake, for there he did not drown,
A different web being by the Destinies
Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er
Reform shall happen either here or there.

* See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeared << with a curious perfume and a melodious twang; » or see the Antiquary, vol. I.


He first sunk to the bottom-like his works,
But soon rose to the surface-like himself;
For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks,
By their own rottenness, light as an elf,
Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks,

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf,

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In his own den, to scrawl some «Life » or «< Vision, » As Wellborn says-« the devil turn'd precisian. »


As for the rest, to come to the conclusion
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone
Which kept my optics free from all delusion,
And show'd me what I in my turn have shown:
All I saw further in the last confusion,

Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one; And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,

I left him practising the hundredth psalm.

* A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten; it then floats, as most people know.

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