Peter Bell the Third. by Miching Mallecho, Esq
Lines:837Movement:Romanticism
Is it a party in a parlour,Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,Some sipping punch--some sipping tea;But, as you by their faces see,All silent, and all--damned!"Peter Bell", by W. WORDSWORTH. OPHELIA.--What means this, my lord?HAMLET.--Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief.SHAKESPEARE. MICHING MALLECHO. PROLOGUE. Peter Bells, one, two and three,O'er the wide world wandering be.--First, the antenatal Peter,Wrapped in weeds of the same metre,The so-long-predestined raimentClothed in which to walk his way meantThe second Peter; whose ambitionIs to link the proposition,As the mean of two extremes--(This was learned from Aldric's themes)Shielding from the guilt of schismThe orthodoxal syllogism;The First Peter--he who wasLike the shadow in the glassOf the second, yet unripe,His substantial antitype.-- Then came Peter Bell the Second,Who henceforward must be reckonedThe body of a double soul,And that portion of the wholeWithout which the rest would seemEnds of a disjointed dream.--And the Third is he who hasO'er the grave been forced to passTo the other side, which is,--Go and try else,--just like this. Peter Bell the First was PeterSmugger, milder, softer, neater,Like the soul before it isBorn from THAT world into THIS.The next Peter Bell was he,Predevote, like you and me,To good or evil as may come;His was the severer doom,--For he was an evil Cotter,And a polygamic Potter.And the last is Peter Bell,Damned since our first parents fell,Damned eternally to Hell--Surely he deserves it well! PART 1. DEATH. And Peter Bell, when he had beenWith fresh-imported Hell-fire warmed,Grew serious--from his dress and mien'Twas very plainly to be seenPeter was quite reformed. His eyes turned up, his mouth turned down;His accent caught a nasal twang;He oiled his hair; there might be heardThe grace of God in every wordWhich Peter said or sang. But Peter now grew old, and hadAn ill no doctor could unravel:His torments almost drove him mad;--Some said it was a fever bad--Some swore it was the gravel. His holy friends then came about,And with long preaching and persuasionConvinced the patient that, withoutThe smallest shadow of a doubt,He was predestined to damnation. They said--'Thy name is Peter Bell;Thy skin is of a brimstone hue;Alive or dead--ay, sick or well--The one God made to rhyme with hell;The other, I think, rhymes with you. Then Peter set up such a yell!--The nurse, who with some water gruelWas climbing up the stairs, as wellAs her old legs could climb them--fell,And broke them both--the fall was cruel. The Parson from the casement leptInto the lake of Windermere--And many an eel--though no adeptIn God's right reason for it--keptGnawing his kidneys half a year. And all the rest rushed through the doorAnd tumbled over one another,And broke their skulls.--Upon the floorMeanwhile sat Peter Bell, and swore,And cursed his father and his mother; And raved of God, and sin, and death,Blaspheming like an infidel;And said, that with his clenched teethHe'd seize the earth from underneath,And drag it with him down to hell. As he was speaking came a spasm,And wrenched his gnashing teeth asunder;Like one who sees a strange phantasmHe lay,--there was a silent chasmBetween his upper jaw and under. And yellow death lay on his face;And a fixed smile that was not humanTold, as I understand the case,That he was gone to the wrong place:--I heard all this from the old woman. Then there came down from Langdale PikeA cloud, with lightning, wind and hail;It swept over the mountains likeAn ocean,--and I heard it strikeThe woods and crags of Grasmere vale. And I saw the black storm comeNearer, minute after minute;Its thunder made the cataracts dumb;With hiss, and clash, and hollow hum,It neared as if the Devil was in it. The Devil WAS in it:--he had boughtPeter for half-a-crown; and whenThe storm which bore him vanished, noughtThat in the house that storm had caughtWas ever seen again. The gaping neighbours came next day--They found all vanished from the shore:The Bible, whence he used to pray,Half scorched under a hen-coop lay;Smashed glass--and nothing more! PART 2. THE DEVIL. The Devil, I safely can aver,Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;Nor is he, as some sages swear,A spirit, neither here nor there,In nothing--yet in everything. He is--what we are; for sometimesThe Devil is a gentleman;At others a bard bartering rhymesFor sack; a statesman spinning crimes;A swindler, living as he can; A thief, who cometh in the night,With whole boots and net pantaloons,Like some one whom it were not rightTo mention;--or the luckless wightFrom whom he steals nine silver spoons. But in this case he did appearLike a slop-merchant from Wapping,And with smug face, and eye severe,On every side did perk and peerTill he saw Peter dead or napping. He had on an upper Benjamin(For he was of the driving schism)In the which he wrapped his skinFrom the storm he travelled in,For fear of rheumatism. He called the ghost out of the corse;--It was exceedingly like Peter,--Only its voice was hollow and hoarse--It had a queerish look of course--Its dress too was a little neater. The Devil knew not his name and lot;Peter knew not that he was Bell:Each had an upper stream of thought,Which made all seem as it was not;Fitting itself to all things well. Peter thought he had parents dear,Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies,In the fens of Lincolnshire;He perhaps had found them thereHad he gone and boldly shown his Solemn phiz in his own village;Where he thought oft when a boyHe'd clomb the orchard walls to pillageThe produce of his neighbour's tillage,With marvellous pride and joy. And the Devil thought he had,'Mid the misery and confusionOf an unjust war, just madeA fortune by the gainful tradeOf giving soldiers rations bad--The world is full of strange delusion-- That he had a mansion plannedIn a square like Grosvenor Square,That he was aping fashion, andThat he now came to WestmorelandTo see what was romantic there. And all this, though quite ideal,--Ready at a breath to vanish,--Was a state not more unrealThan the peace he could not feel,Or the care he could not banish. After a little conversation,The Devil told Peter, if he chose,He'd bring him to the world of fashionBy giving him a situationIn his own service--and new clothes. And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud,And after waiting some few daysFor a new livery--dirty yellowTurned up with black--the wretched fellowWas bowled to Hell in the Devil's chaise. PART 3. HELL. Hell is a city much like London--A populous and a smoky city;There are all sorts of people undone,And there is little or no fun done;Small justice shown, and still less pity. There is a Castles, and a Canning,A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh;All sorts of caitiff corpses planningAll sorts of cozening for trepanningCorpses less corrupt than they. There is a , who has lostHis wits, or sold them, none knows which;He walks about a double ghost,And though as thin as Fraud almost--Ever grows more grim and rich. There is a Chancery Court; a King;A manufacturing mob; a setOf thieves who by themselves are sentSimilar thieves to represent;An army; and a public debt. Which last is a scheme of paper money,And means--being interpreted--'Bees, keep your wax--give us the honey,And we will plant, while skies are sunny,Flowers, which in winter serve instead.' There is a great talk of revolution--And a great chance of despotism--German soldiers--camps--confusion--Tumults--lotteries--rage--delusion--Gin--suicide--and methodism; Taxes too, on wine and bread,And meat, and beer, and tea, and cheese,From which those patriots pure are fed,Who gorge before they reel to bedThe tenfold essence of all these. There are mincing women, mewing,(Like cats, who amant misere,)Of their own virtue, and pursuingTheir gentler sisters to that ruin,Without which--what were chastity?(2) Lawyers--judges--old hobnobbersAre there--bailiffs--chancellors--Bishops--great and little robbers--Rhymesters--pamphleteers--stock-jobbers--Men of glory in the wars,-- Things whose trade is, over ladiesTo lean, and flirt, and stare, and simper,Till all that is divine in womanGrows cruel, courteous, smooth, inhuman,Crucified 'twixt a smile and whimper. Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling,Frowning, preaching--such a riot!Each with never-ceasing labour,Whilst he thinks he cheats his neighbour,Cheating his own heart of quiet. And all these meet at levees;--Dinners convivial and political;--Suppers of epic poets;--teas,Where small talk dies in agonies;--Breakfasts professional and critical; Lunches and snacks so aldermanicThat one would furnish forth ten dinners,Where reigns a Cretan-tongued panic,Lest news Russ, Dutch, or AlemannicShould make some losers, and some winners-- At conversazioni--balls--Conventicles--and drawing-rooms--Courts of law--committees--callsOf a morning--clubs--book-stalls--Churches--masquerades--and tombs. And this is Hell--and in this smotherAll are damnable and damned;Each one damning, damns the other;They are damned by one another,By none other are they damned. 'Tis a lie to say, 'God damns'! (1)Where was Heaven's Attorney GeneralWhen they first gave out such flams?Let there be an end of shams,They are mines of poisonous mineral. Statesmen damn themselves to beCursed; and lawyers damn their soulsTo the auction of a fee;Churchmen damn themselves to seeGod's sweet love in burning coals. The rich are damned, beyond all cure,To taunt, and starve, and trample onThe weak and wretched; and the poorDamn their broken hearts to endureStripe on stripe, with groan on groan. Sometimes the poor are damned indeedTo take,--not means for being blessed,--But Cobbett's snuff, revenge; that weedFrom which the worms that it doth feedSqueeze less than they before possessed. And some few, like we know who,Damned--but God alone knows why--To believe their minds are givenTo make this ugly Hell a Heaven;In which faith they live and die. Thus, as in a town, plague-stricken,Each man be he sound or noMust indifferently sicken;As when day begins to thicken,None knows a pigeon from a crow,-- So good and bad, sane and mad,The oppressor and the oppressed;Those who weep to see what othersSmile to inflict upon their brothers;Lovers, haters, worst and best; All are damned--they breathe an air,Thick, infected, joy-dispelling:Each pursues what seems most fair,Mining like moles, through mind, and thereScoop palace-caverns vast, where CareIn throned state is ever dwelling. PART 4. SIN. Lo. Peter in Hell's Grosvenor Square,A footman in the Devil's service!And the misjudging world would swearThat every man in service thereTo virtue would prefer vice. But Peter, though now damned, was notWhat Peter was before damnation.Men oftentimes prepare a lotWhich ere it finds them, is not whatSuits with their genuine station. All things that Peter saw and feltHad a peculiar aspect to him;And when they came within the beltOf his own nature, seemed to melt,Like cloud to cloud, into him. And so the outward world unitingTo that within him, he becameConsiderably uninvitingTo those who, meditation slighting,Were moulded in a different frame. And he scorned them, and they scorned him;And he scorned all they did; and theyDid all that men of their own trimAre wont to do to please their whim,Drinking, lying, swearing, play. Such were his fellow-servants; thusHis virtue, like our own, was builtToo much on that indignant fussHypocrite Pride stirs up in usTo bully one another's guilt. He had a mind which was somehowAt once circumference and centreOf all he might or feel or know;Nothing went ever out, althoughSomething did ever enter. He had as much imaginationAs a pint-pot;--he never couldFancy another situation,From which to dart his contemplation,Than that wherein he stood. Yet his was individual mind,And new created all he sawIn a new manner, and refinedThose new creations, and combinedThem, by a master-spirit's law. Thus--though unimaginative--An apprehension clear, intense,Of his mind's work, had made aliveThe things it wrought on; I believeWakening a sort of thought in sense. But from the first 'twas Peter's driftTo be a kind of moral eunuch,He touched the hem of Nature's shift,Felt faint--and never dared upliftThe closest, all-concealing tunic. She laughed the while, with an arch smile,And kissed him with a sister's kiss,And said--My best Diogenes,I love you well--but, if you please,Tempt not again my deepest bliss. ''Tis you are cold--for I, not coy,Yield love for love, frank, warm, and true;And Burns, a Scottish peasant boy--His errors prove it--knew my joyMore, learned friend, than you. 'Boeca bacciata non perde ventura,Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna:--So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might cure aMale prude, like you, from what you now endure, aLow-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna. Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe.And smoothed his spacious forehead downWith his broad palm;--'twixt love and fear,He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer,And in his dream sate down. The Devil was no uncommon creature;A leaden-witted thief--just huddledOut of the dross and scum of nature;A toad-like lump of limb and feature,With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled. He was that heavy, dull, cold thing,The spirit of evil well may be:A drone too base to have a sting;Who gluts, and grimes his lazy wing,And calls lust, luxury. Now he was quite the kind of wightRound whom collect, at a fixed aera,Venison, turtle, hock, and claret,--Good cheer--and those who come to share it--And best East Indian madeira! It was his fancy to inviteMen of science, wit, and learning,Who came to lend each other light;He proudly thought that his gold's mightHad set those spirits burning. And men of learning, science, wit,Considered him as you and IThink of some rotten tree, and sitLounging and dining under it,Exposed to the wide sky. And all the while with loose fat smile,The willing wretch sat winking there,Believing 'twas his power that madeThat jovial scene--and that all paidHomage to his unnoticed chair. Though to be sure this place was Hell;He was the Devil--and all they--What though the claret circled well,And wit, like ocean, rose and fell?--Were damned eternally. PART 5. GRACE. Among the guests who often stayedTill the Devil's petits-soupers,A man there came, fair as a maid,And Peter noted what he said,Standing behind his master's chair. He was a mighty poet--andA subtle-souled psychologist;All things he seemed to understand,Of old or new--of sea or land--But his own mind--which was a mist. This was a man who might have turnedHell into Heaven--and so in gladnessA Heaven unto himself have earned;But he in shadows undiscernedTrusted.--and damned himself to madness. He spoke of poetry, and how'Divine it was--a light--a love--A spirit which like wind doth blowAs it listeth, to and fro;A dew rained down from God above; 'A power which comes and goes like dream,And which none can ever trace--Heaven's light on earth--Truth's brightest beam.'And when he ceased there lay the gleamOf those words upon his face. Now Peter, when he heard such talk,Would, heedless of a broken pate,Stand like a man asleep, or balkSome wishing guest of knife or fork,Or drop and break his master's plate. At night he oft would start and wakeLike a lover, and beganIn a wild measure songs to makeOn moor, and glen, and rocky lake,And on the heart of man-- And on the universal sky--And the wide earth's bosom green,--And the sweet, strange mysteryOf what beyond these things may lie,And yet remain unseen. For in his thought he visitedThe spots in which, ere dead and damned,He his wayward life had led;Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fedWhich thus his fancy crammed. And these obscure remembrancesStirred such harmony in Peter,That, whensoever he should please,He could speak of rocks and treesIn poetic metre. For though it was without a senseOf memory, yet he remembered wellMany a ditch and quick-set fence;Of lakes he had intelligence,He knew something of heath and fell. He had also dim recollectionsOf pedlars tramping on their rounds;Milk-pans and pails; and odd collectionsOf saws, and proverbs; and reflectionsOld parsons make in burying-grounds. But Peter's verse was clear, and cameAnnouncing from the frozen hearthOf a cold age, that none might tameThe soul of that diviner flameIt augured to the Earth: Like gentle rains, on the dry plains,Making that green which late was gray,Or like the sudden moon, that stainsSome gloomy chamber's window-panesWith a broad light like day. For language was in Peter's handLike 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. And Mr. --, the bookseller,Gave twenty pounds for some;--then scorningA footman's yellow coat to wear,Peter, too proud of heart, I fear,Instantly gave the Devil warning. Whereat the Devil took offence,And swore in his soul a great oath then,'That for his damned impertinenceHe'd bring him to a proper senseOf what was due to gentlemen!' PART 6. DAMNATION. 'O that mine enemy had writtenA book!'--cried Job:--a fearful curse,If to the Arab, as the Briton,'Twas galling to be critic-bitten:--The Devil to Peter wished no worse. When Peter's next new book found vent,The Devil to all the first ReviewsA copy of it slyly sent,With five-pound note as compliment,And this short notice--'Pray abuse.' 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.' Another--'Let him shave his head!Where's Dr. Willis?--Or is he joking?What does the rascal mean or hope,No longer imitating Pope,In that barbarian Shakespeare poking?' One more, 'Is incest not enough?And must there be adultery too?Grace after meat? Miscreant and Liar!Thief! Blackguard! Scoundrel! Fool! hell-fireIs twenty times too good for you. 'By that last book of yours WE thinkYou've double damned yourself to scorn;We warned you whilst yet on the brinkYou stood. From your black name will shrinkThe babe that is unborn.' All these Reviews the Devil madeUp in a parcel, which he hadSafely to Peter's house conveyed.For carriage, tenpence Peter paid--Untied them--read them--went half mad. 'What!' cried he, 'this is my rewardFor nights of thought, and days, of toil?Do poets, but to be abhorredBy men of whom they never heard,Consume their spirits' oil? 'What have I done to them?--and whoIS Mrs. Foy? 'Tis very cruelTo speak of me and Betty so!Adultery! God defend me! Oh!I've half a mind to fight a duel. 'Or,' cried he, a grave look collecting,'Is it my genius, like the moon,Sets those who stand her face inspecting,That face within their brain reflecting,Like a crazed bell-chime, out of tune?' For Peter did not know the town,But thought, as country readers do,For half a guinea or a crown,He bought oblivion or renownFrom God's own voice (1) in a review. All Peter did on this occasionWas, writing some sad stuff in prose.It is a dangerous invasionWhen poets criticize; their stationIs to delight, not pose. The Devil then sent to Leipsic fairFor Born's translation of Kant's book;A world of words, tail foremost, whereRight--wrong--false--true--and foul--and fairAs in a lottery-wheel are shook. Five thousand crammed octavo pagesOf German psychologics,--heWho his furor verborum assuagesThereon, deserves just seven months' wagesMore than will e'er be due to me. I looked on them nine several days,And then I saw that they were bad;A friend, too, spoke in their dispraise,--He never read them;--with amazeI found Sir William Drummond had. When the book came, the Devil sentIt to P. Verbovale (2), Esquire,With a brief note of compliment,By that night's Carlisle mail. It went,And set his soul on fire. Fire, which ex luce praebens fumum,Made him beyond the bottom seeOf truth's clear well--when I and you, Ma'am,Go, as we shall do, subter humum,We may know more than he. Now Peter ran to seed in soulInto a walking paradox;For he was neither part nor whole,Nor good, nor bad--nor knave nor fool;--Among the woods and rocks Furious he rode, where late he ran,Lashing and spurring his tame hobby;Turned to a formal puritan,A solemn and unsexual man,--He half believed "White Obi". This steed in vision he would ride,High trotting over nine-inch bridges,With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride,Mocking and mowing by his side--A mad-brained goblin for a guide--Over corn-fields, gates, and hedges. After these ghastly rides, he cameHome to his heart, and found from thenceMuch stolen of its accustomed flame;His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and lameOf their intelligence. To Peter's view, all seemed one hue;He was no Whig, he was no Tory;No Deist and no Christian he;--He got so subtle, that to beNothing, was all his glory. One single point in his beliefFrom his organization sprung,The heart-enrooted faith, the chiefEar in his doctrines' blighted sheaf,That 'Happiness is wrong'; So thought Calvin and Dominic;So think their fierce successors, whoEven now would neither stint nor stickOur flesh from off our bones to pick,If they might 'do their do.' His morals thus were undermined:--The old Peter--the hard, old Potter--Was born anew within his mind;He grew dull, harsh, sly, unrefined,As when he tramped beside the Otter. (1) In the death hues of agonyLambently flashing from a fish,Now Peter felt amused to seeShades like a rainbow's rise and flee,Mixed with a certain hungry wish(2). So in his Country's dying faceHe looked--and, lovely as she lay,Seeking in vain his last embrace,Wailing her own abandoned case,With hardened sneer he turned away: And coolly to his own soul said;--'Do you not think that we might makeA poem on her when she's dead:--Or, no--a thought is in my head--Her shroud for a new sheet I'll take: 'My wife wants one.--Let who will buryThis mangled corpse! And I and you,My dearest Soul, will then make merry,As the Prince Regent did with Sherry,--''Ay--and at last desert me too.' And so his Soul would not be gay,But moaned within him; like a fawnMoaning within a cave, it layWounded and wasting, day by day,Till all its life of life was gone. As troubled skies stain waters clear,The storm in Peter's heart and mindNow made his verses dark and queer:They were the ghosts of what they were,Shaking dim grave-clothes in the wind. For he now raved enormous folly,Of Baptisms, Sunday-schools, and Graves,'Twould make George Colman melancholyTo have heard him, like a male Molly,Chanting those stupid staves. Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuseOn Peter while he wrote for freedom,So soon as in his song they spyThe 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 wayTo make a better thing of metreThan e'er was made by living creatureUp to this blessed day.' Then Peter wrote odes to the Devil;--In one of which he meekly said:'May Carnage and Slaughter,Thy niece and thy daughter,May Rapine and Famine,Thy gorge ever cramming,Glut thee with living and dead! '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 yeomenHew down babes and women,And laugh with bold triumph till Heaven be rent!When Moloch in JewryMunched children with fury,It was thou, Devil, dining with pure intent. (1) PART 7. DOUBLE DAMNATION. The Devil now knew his proper cue.--Soon as he read the ode, he droveTo his friend Lord MacMurderchouse'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 taxesA friend of ours--a poet--fewerHave fluttered tamer to the lureThan he.' His lordship stands and racks his Stupid brains, while one might countAs 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 requireNo pledge from you, that he will stirIn our affairs;--like Oliver.That he'll be worthy of his hire.' These words exchanged, the news sent offTo 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 devotionEngendering in his back; each motionSeemed a Lord's shoe to kiss. He hired a house, bought plate, and madeA 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 intoThe very life and soul of Peter--He walked about--slept--had the hueOf health upon his cheeks--and fewDug better--none a heartier eater. And yet a strange and horrid curseClung upon Peter, night and day;Month after month the thing grew worse,And deadlier than in this my verseI can find strength to say. Peter was dull--he was at firstDull--oh, 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 immortalDescribed 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 wasConcentred and compressed so close,'Twould have made Guatimozin dozeOn 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 hiredTo 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 curseYawned 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 broodNear Peter's house took wing. And every neighbouring cottagerStupidly yawned upon the other:No jackass brayed; no little curCocked up his ears;--no man would stirTo save a dying mother. Yet all from that charmed district wentBut 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?