 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
II. PART II. THE SUPPER.
Virgil—Ariosto—Milton—
All who've essay'd to tell
The wonders, glories, mysteries
That in Avernus dwell,
Assist me with your ancient might
And power to sing them well!
All who've essay'd to tell
The wonders, glories, mysteries
That in Avernus dwell,
Assist me with your ancient might
And power to sing them well!
The Devil sent his coach-and-six,
Which small Diavolo bore;
At seven, precisely, came the Pope,
And knocked at Satan's door.
Grim, bristled Cerberus asked him in,
And supper was set for four.
Which small Diavolo bore;
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And knocked at Satan's door.
Grim, bristled Cerberus asked him in,
And supper was set for four.
Old Nick, and Roebuck, Dan, the Pope,
The supper party were;
Four greater scamps in Christendom
Did never sit so near—
“Of all my friends,” Old Nick replied,
“You are to me most dear.”
The supper party were;
Four greater scamps in Christendom
Did never sit so near—
“Of all my friends,” Old Nick replied,
“You are to me most dear.”
Goblets of skulls, and massive gold
Upon the table stood,
In sepulchres of ancient kings
Was served the reeking food;
Of murderers' blades the knives were cut,
And Dan's was stained with blood.
Upon the table stood,
In sepulchres of ancient kings
Was served the reeking food;
Of murderers' blades the knives were cut,
And Dan's was stained with blood.
“What, ho! the supper-things remove—
Fill high these skulls with wine;
Tap the best hogsheads—those that came
With Horace the divine—
It is not every day such men
With Satan sup or dine!
Fill high these skulls with wine;
Tap the best hogsheads—those that came
With Horace the divine—
It is not every day such men
With Satan sup or dine!
“And now a toast! ('twas Satan spoke!)
No heel-taps!—higher still!—
‘The Pope!’ ‘The Pope!’ with three times three:
Each one a bumper fill!
The Pope of Rome—the earthly Lord
Of every human ill.
No heel-taps!—higher still!—
‘The Pope!’ ‘The Pope!’ with three times three:
Each one a bumper fill!
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Of every human ill.
“The Pope of Rome, my trustiest friend
In every clime hath stood:
The epitaph of every Pope
Is writ in innocent blood!
Oh! as I heard the victims shriek—
By heaven—it did me good!
In every clime hath stood:
The epitaph of every Pope
Is writ in innocent blood!
Oh! as I heard the victims shriek—
By heaven—it did me good!
“Oft have I left my brimstone couch,
At solemn dead of night,
To soothe my ears with virgins' groans—
(For Racks are my delight!)
And with rich glee I saw the heart
Leap up, and die with fright.
At solemn dead of night,
To soothe my ears with virgins' groans—
(For Racks are my delight!)
And with rich glee I saw the heart
Leap up, and die with fright.
“Oh, joy! the myriad gory ghosts
Sent here from Palestine;
When the Crusaders' swords let out
Their blood like streaming wine!
Oh, joy! upon the Alpine heights,
The thousands that were mine.
Sent here from Palestine;
When the Crusaders' swords let out
Their blood like streaming wine!
Oh, joy! upon the Alpine heights,
The thousands that were mine.
“And never shall this brain forget
That night of glorious glee—
When Christian blood through Paris ran,
High as my charger's knee:
Nor when fierce Smithfield's fiery surge
Raged with the good and free.
That night of glorious glee—
When Christian blood through Paris ran,
High as my charger's knee:
Nor when fierce Smithfield's fiery surge
Raged with the good and free.
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“Long life, I say, to every Pope,
Long may his empire last!
The Inquisition's dreadful throes—
The howlings on the blast—
The death of martyrs and their shrieks,
Throw glory on the past!”
Long may his empire last!
The Inquisition's dreadful throes—
The howlings on the blast—
The death of martyrs and their shrieks,
Throw glory on the past!”
Then three times three, and nine times nine,
The four, upstanding, gave—
Till Night's reverberate caverns shook
Loud as the stormy wave:
Then, all again was calm and still,
And solemn as the grave!
The four, upstanding, gave—
Till Night's reverberate caverns shook
Loud as the stormy wave:
Then, all again was calm and still,
And solemn as the grave!
When order was restored, the Pope
Rose briefly to reply:
“Good Gentlemen, I thank you much
For this your courtesy.
My brother Popes have done great things,
I grant—and so have I.
Rose briefly to reply:
“Good Gentlemen, I thank you much
For this your courtesy.
My brother Popes have done great things,
I grant—and so have I.
“Your praises all are very kind,
But Satan's in particular—
And all that I can do for him,
By poison, dagger, war—
(Great cheers!)—he may rely upon!
May nought my purpose mar.”
But Satan's in particular—
And all that I can do for him,
By poison, dagger, war—
(Great cheers!)—he may rely upon!
May nought my purpose mar.”
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When Gregory had done, Satan arose—
Sceptred and crown'd the gloomy Monarch stood;
Whilst by some secret sign, awoke from trance,
Rush'd to the banquet Hell's innumerous brood!
Fierce Moloch first, fair Belial, Mammon swart,
And all the demons of revenge and blood.
Sceptred and crown'd the gloomy Monarch stood;
Whilst by some secret sign, awoke from trance,
Rush'd to the banquet Hell's innumerous brood!
Fierce Moloch first, fair Belial, Mammon swart,
And all the demons of revenge and blood.
“Princes, (quoth Satan!) powers, dominions, here,
Who, with me, in your proud ambition fell—
I have a health to give—the health of one
Whom all of you, compatriots, cherish well;
The best and merriest gentleman, I'm sure,
Who ever past an evening in hell.
Who, with me, in your proud ambition fell—
I have a health to give—the health of one
Whom all of you, compatriots, cherish well;
The best and merriest gentleman, I'm sure,
Who ever past an evening in hell.
“'Tis Mr D. O'Connell. (Vast applause!)
Ireland's big Agitator, our ally;
My ‘roaring lion seeking to devour.’
I'm getting old, in fact, and he shall try
His arts awhile! His huge success you know!
He shall be chosen Devil when I die.
Ireland's big Agitator, our ally;
My ‘roaring lion seeking to devour.’
I'm getting old, in fact, and he shall try
His arts awhile! His huge success you know!
He shall be chosen Devil when I die.
(Tremendous cheering followed this announcement,
Loud as autumnal thunder!) “He has done
More for my trade than any man I know,
And d---d more souls (besides I'm sure his own!)
Pope, priest, nor devil do deserve the half
Of thanks and glory as this jolly one.
Loud as autumnal thunder!) “He has done
More for my trade than any man I know,
And d---d more souls (besides I'm sure his own!)
Pope, priest, nor devil do deserve the half
Of thanks and glory as this jolly one.
“Lo! how through Ireland treason mounts the air,
Her peasants paupers, and her patriots slaves!
The mother's love is changed to grim despair,
And Carnage leaps for joy upon the graves.
More blood and groans have come from thence last year,
Than from the influenza, winds, or waves!
Her peasants paupers, and her patriots slaves!
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And Carnage leaps for joy upon the graves.
More blood and groans have come from thence last year,
Than from the influenza, winds, or waves!
“I'm proud, too, Daniel, that each Session now,
You march to England, that accursed land
Of Protestants, brave men, and virtuous women:
Why, thou deserv'st my sceptre in thy hand
Just for the mischief thou hast brewing there—
I ne'er in England yet could make a stand.
You march to England, that accursed land
Of Protestants, brave men, and virtuous women:
Why, thou deserv'st my sceptre in thy hand
Just for the mischief thou hast brewing there—
I ne'er in England yet could make a stand.
“Then wave your beavers high, grim demons all!
Rejoice, proud Potentates, for such a guest!
None better here has enter'd since the fall—
None that I know has better done his best.
Shout louder, valiant comrades!—louder still!
And Cerberus, howl thou, among the rest!”
Rejoice, proud Potentates, for such a guest!
None better here has enter'd since the fall—
None that I know has better done his best.
Shout louder, valiant comrades!—louder still!
And Cerberus, howl thou, among the rest!”
King Daniel's answer must remain
Till April twenty-eight;
And then, mayhap, we shall again
Put all our friends to right
Upon the question how these things
Have ever come to light:
We then shall condescend another
Pasquin to indite.
Till April twenty-eight;
And then, mayhap, we shall again
Put all our friends to right
Upon the question how these things
Have ever come to light:
We then shall condescend another
Pasquin to indite.
| The bard, and minor poems | |