Part V: 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!'