A POET once, whose tuneful soul, perchance,
Too fondly leaned toward sin, and sin's romance,
On a long vanished eve, so calm and clear
None could have deemed an evil spirit near,
Brooding ill deeds, was summoned by a writ,
In the due form of Hades, to the Pit;
A red-nosed, red-haired fiend the summoner,
About whose horrent head his locks did stir
Like half-waked serpents! "Well," in wrath and woe,
The poet cried, "whom the De'il drives must go,
Whate'er the goal! Yet much I wish that he
Had sent as guide some nobler fiend than thee,
Thou hideous varlet!"
"Come, keep cool, I say,"
Counselled the other sagely, "While you may!"
Whereon, as half in scorn and half in ire,
He haled the poet to the realm of fire.
Arrived in bounds Hadéan, a vast rout
Of fiends they met, who rushed tumultuous out,
To roam the earth and those doomed snare
Who unsuspecting lived and acted there;
Till in a few brief seconds the whole crew
Of crowding demons--black, brown, green and blue--
All but their haughty chief, his form upreared
Through the red mist, had wildly disappeared.
Then said the dark archangel to the bard:
"Thine eye is bright, thou hast a shrewd regard;
And, therefore, ere I likewise o'er the marge
Of Hades wing my way for some brief hours,
To thee I choose to delegate my powers
As chief and sovereign of this kingdom dread,
To which, if well thou guardest, by my head
Thy recompense, when I come back, shall be
A luscious tid bit, garnished daintily--
No meaner entrée than a roasted monk,
(Before he's cooked we'll make the rascal drunk,
To spice his juices!); or, if thou'dst prefer
Yon leaner and less succulent usurer,
Why, of our toil and time with trifling loss,
We'll serve him up, larded with golden sauce!"
But while the absent fiends their cunning tasked
To trap unwary souls, thick cloaked and masked,
One entered Hades who did soon entice
The heedless bard to play a game at dice,
Staking the souls he held in charge thereon.
The stranger played superbly--played, and won.
So, gathering round him the freed souls, with care
And kind despatch, safe to the outward air
He led them triumphing; and all who now
Looked on his unmasked face and glorious brow
Knew that St. Peter stood amongst them there.
But when the devils, trooping homeward, found
Their kingdom void--its conflagrations drowned
As 'twere by showers from Heaven--such curses rose--
Like thunder bellowing through the strange repose
Which late had reigned--the poet's head whirled round,
Stunned by the tumult. But ere long, with whirr
And furious whizz, his right hand Lucifer
Brought in such stinging contact with one cheek
And then the other, that our minstrel, weak
From pain and fear, sank trembling on the floor.
But sternly Satan pointed to the door,
Where through his faithless guard, with many a kick
And echoing thump, and one swift merciless prick
Of a keen pitchfork, was thrust forth in shame
From out the empire of fierce grief and flame,
In even more woeful plight than when he came!
Then Lucifer upraised his arms and swore
A mighty oath that Hades' lurid door.
No poet's form should ever enter more!
So, brother bards, whate'er ye write or do,
Be fearless. Hades holds no place for you:
Since if on earth men deem your worth but small,
Why there, 'tis plain, you have no worth at all!
