from Canto XV

91

But here again, why will I thus entangle
     Myself with metaphysics? None can hate
So much as I do any kind of wrangle;
     And yet, such is my folly, or my fate,
I always knock my head against some angle
     About the present, past, or future state:
Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian,
For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian.

92

But though I am a temperate Theologian,
    And also meek as a Metaphysician,
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan,
     As Eldon on a lunatic commission,—
In politics my duty is to show John
     Bull something of the lower world’s condition.
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla,
To see men let these scoundrel Sovereigns break law.

93

But politics, and policy, and piety,
     Are topics which I sometimes introduce,
Not only for the sake of their variety,
     But as subservient to a moral use;
Because my business is to dress society,
     And stuff with sage that very verdant goose.
And now, that we may furnish with some matter all
Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural.

94

And now I will give up all argument;
     And positively henceforth no temptation
Shall “fool me to the top up of my bent”;—
     Yes, I’ll begin a thorough reformation.
Indeed I never knew what people meant
     By deeming that my Muse’s conversation
Was dangerous;—I think she is as harmless
As some who labour more and yet may charm less.

95

Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost?
     No; but you have heard—I understand—be dumb!
And don’t regret the time you may have lost,
     For you have got that pleasure still to come:
And do not think I mean to sneer at most
    Of these things, or by ridicule benumb
That source of the sublime and the mysterious:—
For certain reasons, my belief is serious.

96

Serious? You laugh:—you may; that will I not;
     My smiles must be sincere or not at all.
I say I do believe a haunted spot
     Exists—and where? That shall I not recall,
Because I’d rather it should be forgot,
    “Shadows the soul of Richard” may appal.
In short, upon that subject I’ve some qualms very
Like those of the Philosopher of Malmsbury.

97

The night (I sing by night—sometimes an owl,
     And now and then a nightingale)—is dim,
And the loud shriek of sage Minerva’s fowl
     Rattles around me her discordant hymn:
Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl—
     I wish to heaven they would not look so grim;
The dying embers dwindle in the grate—
I think too that I have sate up too late:

98

And therefore, though ‘tis by no means my way
     To rhyme at noon—when I have other things
To think of, if I ever think,—I say
    I feel some chilly midnight shudderings,
And prudently postpone, until mid-day,
     Treating a topic which alas but brings
Shadows;—but you must be in my condition
Before you learn to call this superstition.

99

Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
     ‘Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon’s verge:
How little do we know that which we are!
     How less what we may be! The eternal surge
Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar
     Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
Lash’d from the foam of ages; while the graves
Of Empires heave but like some passing waves.