LXXX.

I've an hypothesis-'tis quite my own;
I never let it out till now, for fear
Of doing people harm about the throne,
And injuring some minister or peer

On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown;
It is my gentle public, lend thine ear!
"Tis, that what Junius we are wont to call,
Was really, truly, nobody at all.

LXXXI.

I don't see wherefore letters should not be
Written without hands, since we daily view
Them written without heads; and books we see
Are fill'd as well without the latter too :
And really till we fix on somebody

For certain sure to claim them as his due,
Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother
The world to say if there be mouth or author.

LXXXII.

"And who and what art thou?" the Archangel said. "For that, you may consult my title-page,"

Replied this mighty Shadow of a Shade:

"If I have kept my secret half an age,

"I scarce shall tell it now."-" Canst thou upbraid,” Continued Michael, "George Rex, or allege

"Aught further?" Junius answer'd, "You had better "First ask him for his answer to my letter:

LXXXIII.

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My charges upon record will outlast

"The brass of both his epitaph and tomb.”

Repent'st thou not," said Michael, "of some past
"Exaggeration ? something which may doom
Thyself, if false, as him if true? Thou wast
"Too bitter-is it not so? in thy gloom

"Of passion?" "Passion!" cried the Phantom dim,
"I loved my country, and I hated him.

LXXXIV.

"What I have written, I have written: let
"The rest be on his head or mine!" So spoke
Old "Nominis Umbra;" and while speaking yet,
Away he melted in celestial smoke.

Then Sathan said to Michael, "Don't forget

"To call George Washington, and John Horne Tooke, "And Franklin:"-but at this time there was heard

A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd.

LXXXV.

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid
Of cherubim appointed to that post,

The devil Asmodeus to the circle made

His way, and look'd as if his journey cost Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, "What's this?" cried Michael; "why, 'tis not a ghost?" "I know it," quoth the incubus; "but he

"Shall be

one, if you leave the affair to me.

LXXXVI.

"Confound the Renegado! I have sprain'd

66

My left wing, he's so heavy; one would think "Some of his works about his neck were chain'd.

"But to the point: while hovering o'er the brink "Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd),

"I saw a taper, far below me, wink,

"And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel"No less on History than the Holy Bible.

LXXXVII.

"The former is the devil's scripture, and
"The latter yours, good Michael; so the affair
"Belongs to all of us, you understand.

"I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, "And brought him off for sentence out of hand: "I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air—

"At least a quarter it can hardly be:
"I dare say that his wife is still at tea."

LXXXVIII.

Here Sathan said, "I know this man of old,
"And have expected him for some time here;
"A sillier fellow you will scarce behold,
"Or more conceited in his petty sphere:
"But surely it was not worth while to fold

"Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear!

"We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored "With carriage) coming of his own accord.

LXXXIX.

"But since he's here, let's see what he has done."
"Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates
"The very business you are now upon,

"And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates.
"Who knows to what his ribaldry may run,
"When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates ?"
"Let's hear," quoth Michael, "what he has to say;
"You know we're bound to that in every way."

XC.

Now the Bard, glad to get an audience, which
By no means often was his case below,
Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch
His voice into that awful note of woe

To all unhappy hearers within reach

Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in flow;
But stuck fast with his first hexameter,
Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir.

XCI.

But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd
Into recitative, in great dismay

Both cherubim and seraphim were heard

To murmur loudly through their long array;

And Michael rose ere he could get a word

Of all his founder'd verses under way,

And cried, "For God's sake stop, my friend! 'twere best"Non Di, non homines-" you know the rest."

XCII.

A general bustle spread throughout the throng,
Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation;
The angels had of course enough of song

When upon service; and the generation
Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long
Before, to profit by a new occasion;

The Monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, "What! what! 66 Pye come again? No more-no more of that!"

XCIII.

The tumult grew, an universal cough
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate,
When Castlereagh has been up long enough,
(Before he was first minister of state,

I mean the slaves hear now;) some cried "off, off,"
As at a farce; till grown quite desperate,

The Bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose (Himself an author) only for his prose.

XCIV.

The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave;
A good deal like a vulture in the face,
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave
A smart and sharper looking sort of grace
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave,
Was by no means so ugly as his case;
But that indeed was hopeless as can be,
Quite a poetic felony "de se."