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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 joy More, learned friend, than you.

« BO basciata non perde ventura ;

Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna :- [cure a So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might Male prude, like you, from what you now endure, a

Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna."

Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe,

And smoothed his spacious forehead down, With his broad palm ;—'twixt love and fear, He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer,

And in his dream sat down.

The Devil was no uncommon creature ;

A leaden-witted thief-just huddled Out 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
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 wight

Round whom collect, at a fixed æra, Venison, turtle, hock, and claret, Good cheer--and those who come to share it

And best East-Indian madeira !

It was his fancy to invite

Men of science, wit, and learning,
Who came to lend each other light;
He proudly thought that his gold's might

Had set those spirits burning.

And men of learning, science, wit,

Considered him as you and I Think of some rotten tree, and sit Lounging 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 made That jovial scene—and that all paid

Homage to his unnoticed chair :

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Though to be sure this place was Hell ;

He was the Devil—and all theyWhat though the claret circled well, And wit, like ocean, rose and fell ?

Were damned eternally.



AMONG the guests who often staid

Till 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-and

A 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 turned

Hell into Heaven—and so in gladness A Heaven unto himself have earned ; But he in shadows undiscerned

Trusted, -and damned himself to madness. He spoke of poetry, and how

“ Divine it was—a light-a loveA spirit which like wind doth blow As 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 traceHeaven's light on earth—Truth's brightest beam.” And when he ceased there lay the gleam

Of those words upon his face.

Now Peter, when he heard such talk,

Would, heedless of a broken pate, Stand like a man asleep, or balk Some wishing guest of knife or fork,

Or drop and break his master's plate.

At night he oft would start and wake

Like a lover, and began
In a wild measure songs to make
On 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 mystery
Of what beyond these things may lie,

And yet remain unseen.

For in his thought he visited

The spots in which, ere dead and damned, He his wayward life had led ; Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed,

Which thus his fancy crammed.

And these obscure remembrances

Stirred such harmony in Peter, That whensoever he should please, He could speak of rocks and trees

In poetic metre.

For though it was without a sense

memory, yet he remembered well
Many a ditch and quick-set fence;
Of lakes he had intelligence,

He knew something of heath, and fell.

He had also dim recollections

Of pedlers tramping on their rounds ; Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections Of saws, and proverbs ; and reflections

Old parsons make in burying-grounds.

But Peter's verse was clear, and came

Announcing from the frozen hearth Of a cold age, that none might tame The soul of that diviner flame

It augured to the Earth ;

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