Poems, 1799 | Page 7

some, and some demurely grave;?Yet such expression stealing from the eye,?As tho', that only naked, all the rest?Was one close fitting mask. A scoffing Fiend,?For Fiend he was, tho' wisely serving here?Mock'd at his patients, and did often pour?Ashes upon them, and then bid them say?Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laughed:?For these were Hypocrites, on earth revered?As holy ones, who did in public tell?Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross themselves,?And call themselves most miserable sinners,?That so they might be deem'd most pious saints;?And go all filth, and never let a smile?Bend their stern muscles, gloomy, sullen men,?Barren of all affection, and all this?To please their God, forsooth! and therefore SCORN?Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat?Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery?Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer,?They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul?To Heaven, then did they not regard his mocks?Which then came painless, and HUMILITY?Soon rescued them, and led to PENITENCE,?That She might lead to Heaven.
From thence they came,?Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band?Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny?Of a fierce Daemon. His coarse hair was red,?Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face?Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears?In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around,?Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some,?Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts,?Or placing coals of fire within their wounds;?Or seizing some within his mighty grasp,?He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back,?And laugh'd to see them writhe.
"These," said the Spirit,?Are taught by CRUELTY, to loath the lives?They led themselves. Here are those wicked men?Who loved to exercise their tyrant power?On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo?A long purgation here; the traffickers?In human flesh here too are disciplined.?Till by their suffering they have equall'd all?The miseries they inflicted, all the mass?Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged,?The towns they burnt, for they who bribe to war?Are guilty of the blood, the widows left?In want, the slave or led to suicide,?Or murdered by the foul infected air?Of his close dungeon, or more sad than all,?His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved,?And driven by woe to wickedness.
These next,?Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room,?So sullen, and with such an eye of hate?Each on the other scowling, these have been?False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts?Here they dwell: in the hollow of their hearts?There is a worm that feeds, and tho' thou seest?That skilful leech who willingly would heal?The ill they suffer, judging of all else?By their own evil standard, they suspect?The aid be vainly proffers, lengthening thus?By vice its punishment."
"But who are these,"?The Maid exclaim'd, "that robed in flowing lawn,?And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps?Like Cardinals, I see in every ward,?Performing menial service at the beck?Of all who bid them?"
Theodore replied,?These men are they who in the name of CHRIST?Did heap up wealth, and arrogating power,?Did make men bow the knee, and call themselves?Most Reverend Graces and Right Reverend Lords.?They dwelt in palaces, in purple clothed,?And in fine linen: therefore are they here;?And tho' they would not minister on earth,?Here penanced they perforce must minister:?For he, the lowly man of Nazareth,?Hath said, his kingdom is not of the world."?So Saying on they past, and now arrived?Where such a hideous ghastly groupe abode,?That the Maid gazed with half-averting eye,?And shudder'd: each one was a loathly corpse,?The worm did banquet on his putrid prey,?Yet had they life and feeling exquisite?Tho' motionless and mute.
"Most wretched men?Are these, the angel cried. These, JOAN, are bards,?Whose loose lascivious lays perpetuate?Who sat them down, deliberately lewd,?So to awake and pamper lust in minds?Unborn; and therefore foul of body now?As then they were of soul, they here abide?Long as the evil works they left on earth?Shall live to taint mankind. A dreadful doom!?Yet amply merited by that bad man?Who prostitutes the sacred gift of song!"?And now they reached a huge and massy pile,?Massy it seem'd, and yet in every blast?As to its ruin shook. There, porter fit,?REMORSE for ever his sad vigils kept.?Pale, hollow-eyed, emaciate, sleepless wretch.?Inly he groan'd, or, starting, wildly shriek'd,?Aye as the fabric tottering from its base,?Threatened its fall, and so expectant still?Lived in the dread of danger still delayed.
They enter'd there a large and lofty dome,?O'er whose black marble sides a dim drear light?Struggled with darkness from the unfrequent lamp.?Enthroned around, the MURDERERS OF MANKIND,?Monarchs, the great! the glorious! the august!?Each bearing on his brow a crown of fire,?Sat stern and silent. Nimrod he was there,?First King the mighty hunter; and that Chief?Who did belie his mother's fame, that so?He might be called young Ammon. In this court?C?sar was crown'd, accurst liberticide;?And he who murdered Tully, that cold villain,?Octavius, tho' the courtly minion's lyre?Hath hymn'd his praise, tho' Maro sung to him,?And when Death levelled to original clay?The royal carcase, FLATTERY, fawning low,?Fell at