BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS
SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF ‘WAT TYLER’

‘A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.’
I

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
?His keys were rusty and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late;
?Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era ‘eighty-eight’
?The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,
And ‘a pull all together,’ as they say
At sea—which drew most souls another way.
II

The angels all were singing out of tune,
?And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
?Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon
?Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.
III

The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
?Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky
?Save the recording angel's black bureau;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
?With such rapidity of vice and wo,
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,
And vet was in arrear of human ills.
IV

His business so augmented of late years,
?That he was forced, against his will no doubt
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers),
?For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,
?To aid him ere he should be quite worn out
By the increased demand for his remarks;
An angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.
V

This was a handsome board—at least for heaven;
?And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven,
?So many kingdoms fitted up anew;
Each day too slew its thousands six or seven,
?Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,
They threw their pens down in divine disgust—
The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.
VI

This by the way; 't is not mine to record
?What angels shrink from: even the very devil
On this occasion his own work abhorr'd,
?So surfeited with the infernal revel:
Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword,
?It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil.
(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion—
'T is, that he has both generals in reversion.)
VII

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace,
?Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont,
And heaven none—they form the tyrant's lease,
?With nothing but new names subscribed upon 't:
'T will one day finish: meantime they increase,
?‘With seven heads and ten horns,’ and all in front,
Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born
Less formidable in the head than horn.
VIII

In the first year of freedom's second dawn
?Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one
Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn
?Left him nor mental nor external sun:
A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,
?A worse king never left a realm undone!
He died—but left his subjects still behind,
One half as mad, and t' other no less blind.
IX

He died!—his death made no great stir on earth;
?His burial made some pomp; there was profusion
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth
?Of aught but tears—save those shed by collusion;
For these things may be bought at their true worth;
?Of elegy there was the due infusion—
Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,
X

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all
?The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show
Who cared about the corpse? The funeral
?Made the attraction, and the black the wo.
There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the pall;
?And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,
It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold
The rottenness of eighty years in gold.
XI

So mix his body with the dust! It might
?Return to what it must far sooner, were
The natural compound left alone to fight
?Its way back into earth, and fire, and air;
But the unnatural balsams merely blight
?What nature made him at his birth, as bare
As the mere million's base unmummied clay—
Yet all his spices but prolong decay.
XII

He's dead—and upper earth with him has done;
?He's buried; save the undertaker's bill
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone
?For him, unless he left a German will;
But where's the proctor who will ask his son?
?In whom his qualities are reigning still,
Except that household virtue, most uncommon,
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.
XIII

‘God save the king!’ It is a large economy
?In God to save the like; but if he will
Be saving, all the better; for not one am I
?Of those who think damnation better still:
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I
?In this small hope of bettering future ill
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction,
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction.
XIV

I know this is unpopular; I know
?'T is blasphemous; I know one may be damn'd
For hoping no one else may e'er be so;
?I know my catechism; I know we are cramm'd
With the best doctrines till we quite o'er flow;
?I know that all save England's church have shamm'd,
And that the other twice two hundred churches
And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase.
XV

God help us all! God help me too! I am,
?God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish,
And not a whit more difficult to damn
?Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish,
Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;
?Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish,
As one day will be that immortal fry
Of almost every body born to die.
XVI

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,
?And nodded o'er his keys; when, lo there came
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late—
?A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame;
In short, a roar of things extremely great,
?Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim;
But he, with first a start and then a wink,
Said, ‘There's another star gone out, I think!’
XVII

But ere he could return to his repose,
?A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes—
At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose:
?‘Saint porter,’ said the angel, ‘prithee rise!’
Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows
?An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes:
To which the saint replied, ‘Well, what's the matter?
Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?’
XVIII

‘No, quoth the cherub; ‘George the Third is dead.’
‘And who is George the Third?’ replied the apostle:
‘ What George? what Third? ’ ‘The king of England,’ said
?The angel. ‘Well! he won't find kings to jostle
Him on his way; but does he wear his head?
?Because the last we saw here had a tussle,
And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces,
Had he not flung his head in all our faces.
XIX

‘He was, if I remember, king of France;
?That head of his, which could not keep a crown
On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance
?A claim to those of martyrs—like my own:
If I had had my sword, as I had once
?When I cut ears off, I had cut him down;
But having but my keys , and not my brand,
I only knock'd his head from out his hand.
XX

‘And then he set up such a headless howl,
?That all the saints came out and took him in;
And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl;
?That fellow Paul—the parvenu! The skin
Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl
?In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin
So as to make a martyr, never sped
Better than did this weak and wooden head.
XXI

‘But had it come up here upon its shoulders,
?There would have been a different tale to tell:
The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders
?Seems to have acted on them like a spell;
And so this very foolish head heaven solders
?Back on its trunk: it may be very well,
And seems the custom here to overthrow
Whatever has been wisely done below.’
XXII

The angel answer'd, ‘Peter! do not pout:
?The king who comes has head and all entire,
And never knew much what it was about;
?He did as doth the puppet—by its wire,
And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt:
?My business and your own is not to enquire
Into such matters, but to mind our cue—
Which is to act as we are bid to do.’
XXIII

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,
?Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,
Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan
?Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,
Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man
?With an old soul, and both extremely blind,
Halted before the gate, and in his shroud
Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud.
XXIV

But bringing up the rear of this bright host
?A Spirit of a different aspect waved
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast
?Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;
His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss'd;
?Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved
Eternal wrath on his immortal face,
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space.
XXV

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate
?Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin,
With such a glance of supernatural hate,
?As made Saint Peter wish himself within;
He patter'd with his keys at a great rate,
?And sweated through his apostolic skin:
Of course his perspiration was but ichor,
Or some such other spiritual liquor.
XXVI

The very cherubs huddled all together,
?Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt
A tingling to the tip of every feather,
?And form'd a circle like Orion's belt
Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither
?His guards had led him, though they gently dealt
With royal manes (for by many stories,
And true, we learn the angels are all Tories).
XXVII

As things were in this posture, the gate flew
?Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges
Flung over space an universal hue
?Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges
Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new
?Aurora borealis spread its fringes
O'er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound,
By Captain Parry's crew, in ‘Melville's Sound.’
XXVIII

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming
?A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light,
Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming
?Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight:
My poor comparisons must needs be teeming
?With earthly likenesses, for here the night
Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving
Johanna Southcote or Bob Southey raving.
XXIX

'T was the archangel Michael: all men know
?The make of angels and archangels, since
There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show,
?From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince.
There also are some altar-pieces, though
?I really can't say that they much evince
One's inner notions of immortal spirits;
But let the connoisseurs explain their merits.
XXX

Michael flew forth in glory and in good;
?A goodly work of him from whom all glory
And good arise; the portal past—he stood;
?Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary—
(I say young , begging to be understood
?By looks, not years; and should be very sorry
To state, they were not older than St. Peter,
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter).
XXXI

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before
?That arch-angelic hierarch, the first
Of essences angelical, who wore
?The aspect of a god; but this ne'er nursed
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core
?No thought, save for his Maker's service durst
Intrude, however glorified and high;
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.
XXXII

He and the sombre silent Spirit met—
?They knew each other both for good and ill;
Such was their power, that neither could forget
?His former friend and future foe; but still
There was a high, immortal, proud regret
?In either's eye, as if 't were less their will
Than destiny to make the eternal years
Their date of war, and their ‘champ clos’ the spheres.
XXXIII

But here they were in neutral space: we know
?From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay
A heavenly visit thrice a year or so;
?And that ‘the sons of God,’ like those of clay,
Must keep him company; and we might show
?From the same book, in how polite a way
The dialogue is held between the Powers
Of Good and Evil—but 't would take up hours.
XXXIV

And this is not a theologic tract,
?To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic
If Job be allegory or a fact,
?But a true narrative; and thus I pick
From out the whole but such and such an act
?As sets aside the slightest thought of trick.
'T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion,
And accurate as any other vision.
XXXV

The spirits were in neutral space, before
?The gate of heaven; like eastern thresholds is
The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er,
?And souls despatch'd to that world or to this;
And therefore Michael and the other wore
?A civil aspect: though they did not kiss,
Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness
There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness.
XXXVI

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau,
?But with a graceful oriental bend,
Pressing one radiant arm just where below
?The heart in good men is supposed to tend.
He turn'd as to an equal not too low,
?But kindly; Satan met his ancient friend
With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian.
XXXVII

He merely bent his diabolic brow
?An instant; and then raising it, he stood
In act to assert his right or wrong, and show
?Cause why King George by no means could or should
Make out a case to be exempt from woe
?Eternal, more than other kings, endued
With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions,
Who long have ‘paved hell with their good intentions.’
XXXVIII

Michael began: ‘What wouldst thou with this man,
?Now dead, and brought before the Lord? What ill
Hath he wrought since his mortal race began,
?That thou canst claim him? Speak! and do thy will,
If it be just: if in his earthly span
?He hath been greatly failing to fulfil
His duties as a king and mortal, say,
And he is thine; if not, let him have way.’
XXXIX

‘Michael!’ replied the Prince of Air, ‘even here,
?Before the Gate of him thou servest, must
I claim my subject: and will make appear
?That as he was my worshipper in dust,
So shall he be in spirit, although dear
?To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust
Were of his weaknesses; yet on the throne
He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone
XL

‘Look to our earth, or rather mine ; it was,
? Once, more thy master's: but I triumph not
In this poor planet's conquest; nor, alas!
?Need he thou servest envy me my lot:
With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass
?In worship round him, he may have forgot
Yon weak creation of such paltry things:
I think few worth damnation save their kings,—
XLI

‘And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to
?Assert my right as lord; and even had
I such an inclination, 't were (as you
?Well know) superfluous; they are grown so bad,
That hell has nothing better left to do
?Than leave them to themselves: so much more mad
And evil by their own internal curse,
Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse.
XLII

‘Look to the earth, I said, and say again:
?When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor worm
Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign,
?The world and he both wore a different form,
And much of earth and all the watery plain
?Of ocean call'd him king: through many a storm
His isles had floated on the abyss of time;
For the rough virtues chose them for their clime.
XLIII

‘He came to his sceptre young; he leaves it old:
?Look to the state in which he found his realm,
And left it; and his annals too behold,
?How to a minion first he gave the helm;
How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold,
?The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm
The meanest hearts; and for the rest, but glance
Thine eye along America and France.
XLIV

‘'T is true, he was a tool from first to last
?(I have the workmen safe); but as