Poetry: Lord Byron - The Vision Of Judgment - Part 5 - Poem LXX. to LXXXIX. - Links to more Byron

Posted by Ricardo Marcenaro | Posted in | Posted on 10:31

/"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.


"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 punish'd here for their excess,
 Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in
Their place below: for me, I have forgiven,
And vote his 'habeas corpus' into heaven."


"Wilkes," said the Devil, "I understand all this;
 You turn'd 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 forgot 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.


"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 further ills;
I'll have him /gagg'd/ -- 'twas one of his own bills.


"Call Junius!"  From the crowd a shadow stalk'd,
 And at the name there was a general squeeze,
So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd
 In comfort, at their own aërial ease,
But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'd,
 As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees,
Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder,
Or like a human colic, which is sadder.


The shadow came -- a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure,
 That look'd 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 wax'd 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.


The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less
 Could they distinguish whose the features were;
The Devil himself seem'd 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:


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.


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."


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.


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.


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 fill'd 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 month, will bother
The world to say if /there/be mouth or author.


"And who and what art thou?" the Archangel said.
 "For /that/ 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 answer'd, "You had better
First ask him for /his/ answer to my letter:


"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.


"What I have written, I have written: let
 The rest be on his head or mine!"  So spoke
Old "Nominus 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 stirr'd.


At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid
 Of cherubim appointed to that post,
The devil Asmodeus to the circle made
 His way, and look'd 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.


"Confound the renegado!  I have sprain'd
 My left wing, he's so heavy; one would think
Some of his works about his neck were chain'd.
 But to the point: while hovering o'er the brink
Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd),
 I saw a taper, far below me, wink,
And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel --
No less on history than the Holy Bible.


"The former is the devil's scripture, and
 The latter yours, good Michael; so the affair
Belongs to all of us, you understand.
 I snatch'd 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."


Here Satan said, "I know this man of old,
 And have expected him for some time here;
A sillier fellow you will scarce behold,
 Or more conceited in his petty sphere:
But surely it was not worth while to fold
 Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear:
We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored
With carriage) coming of his own accord.


"But since he's here, let's see what he has done."
 "Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates
The very business you are now upon,
 And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates.
Who knows to what his ribaldry may run,
 When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates?"
"Let's hear," quoth Michael, "what he has to say;
You know we're bound to that in every way."

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

Hebrew Melodies


The Vision Of Judgment

Heaven and Earth:


Poetry: Lord Byron - The Vision Of Judgment - Part 5 - Poem LXX. to LXXXIX. - Links to more Byron

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