Part IV: 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.