[Footnote 231: Bossuet was in his fifty-fourth year; Mademoiselle de Fontanges died in child-bed the year following; he survived her twenty-three years.]

[Footnote 232: Though Bossuet was capable of uttering and even of feeling such a sentiment, his conduct towards Fenelon, the fairest apparition that Christianity ever presented, was ungenerous and unjust.

While the diocese of Cambray was ravaged by Louis, it was spared by Marlborough, who said to the Archbishop that, if he was sorry he had not taken Cambray, it was chiefly because he lost for a time the pleasure of visiting so great a man. Peterborough, the next of our generals in glory, paid his respects to him some years afterward.]

GEORGE, LORD BYRON.

(1788-1824.)

LVIII. THE VISION OF JUDGMENT.

_The Vision of Judgment_ appeared in 1822, and created a great sensation owing to its terrible attack on George III., as well as its ridicule of Southey, of whose long-forgotten _Vision of Judgment_ this is a parody.

I.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate; His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, So little trouble had been given of late: Not that the place by any means was full, But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight", The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, And "a pull all together", as they say At sea--which drew most souls another way.

II.

The angels all were singing out of tune, And hoa.r.s.e with having little else to do, Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, Or curb a runaway young star or two, Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, Splitting some planet with its playful tail, As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

III.

The guardian seraphs had retired on high, Finding their charges past all care below; Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky Save the recording angel's black bureau; Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply With such rapidity of vice and woe, That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, And yet was in arrear of human ills.

IV.

His business so augmented of late years, That he was forced, against his will no doubt (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers), For some resource to turn himself about, And claim the help of his celestial peers, To aid him ere he should be quite worn out By the increased demand for his remarks: Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

V.

This was a handsome board--at least for heaven; And yet they had even then enough to do, So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, So many kingdoms fitted up anew; Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven, Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, They threw their pens down in divine disgust, The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.

VI.

This by the way; 'tis not mine to record What angels shrink from: even the very devil On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, So surfeited with the infernal revel: Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword, It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil.

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion-- 'Tis that he has both generals in reversion.)

VII.

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, Which peopled earth no better, h.e.l.l as wont, And heaven none--they form the tyrant's lease, With nothing but new names subscribed upon't: 'Twill one day finish: meantime they increase, "With seven heads and ten horns", and all in front, Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born Less formidable in the head than horn.

VIII.

In the first year of freedom's second dawn Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn Left him nor mental nor external sun: A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn, A worse king never left a realm undone!

He died--but left his subjects still behind, One half as mad--and t'other no less blind.

IX.

He died! his death made no great stir on earth: His burial made some pomp: there was profusion Of velvet, gilding, bra.s.s, and no great dearth Of aught but tears--save those shed by collusion.

For these things may be bought at their true worth; Of elegy there was the due infusion-- Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

X.

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, Who cared about the corpse? The funeral Made the attraction, and the black the woe, There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced the pall; And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, It seem'd the mockery of h.e.l.l to fold The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

XI.

So mix his body with the dust! It might Return to what it _must_ far sooner, were The natural compound left alone to fight Its way back into earth, and fire, and air, But the unnatural balsams merely blight What nature made him at his birth, as bare As the mere million's base unmummied clay-- Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

XII.

He's dead--and upper earth with him has done; He's buried; save the undertaker's bill, Or lapidary's scrawl, the world has gone For him, unless he left a German will.

But where's the proctor who will ask his son?

In whom his qualities are reigning still, Except that household virtue, most uncommon, Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

XIII.

"G.o.d save the King!" It is a large economy In G.o.d to save the like; but if He will Be saving, all the better; for not one am I Of those who think d.a.m.nation better still; I hardly know, too, if not quite alone am I In this small hope of bettering future ill By circ.u.mscribing, with some slight restriction, The eternity of h.e.l.l's hot jurisdiction.

XIV.

I know this is unpopular; I know 'Tis blasphemous; I know one may be d.a.m.n'd For hoping no one else may e'er be so; I know my catechism: I know we 're cramm'd With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow; I know that all save England's church have shamm'd; And that the other twice two hundred churches And synagogues have made a _d.a.m.n'd_ bad purchase.

XV.

G.o.d help us all! G.o.d help me too! I am, G.o.d knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, And not a whit more difficult to d.a.m.n, Than is to bring to land a late-hooked fish, Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb; Not that I'm fit for such a n.o.ble dish, As one day will be that immortal fry Of almost everybody born to die.

XVI.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, And nodded o'er his keys; when lo! there came A wondrous noise he had not heard of late-- A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame; In short, a roar of things extremely great, Which would have made all save a saint exclaim; But he, with first a start and then a wink, Said, "There's another star gone out, I think!"

XVII.

But ere he could return to his repose, A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes-- At which Saint Peter yawn'd and rubb'd his nose; "Saint porter," said the angel, "prithee rise!"

Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows An earthly peac.o.c.k's tail, with heavenly dyes; To which the Saint replied, "Well, what's the matter?

Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?"

XVIII.

"No," quoth the cherub; "George the Third is dead."

"And who _is_ George the Third?" replied the apostle; "_What George? What Third?_" "The King of England," said The angel. "Well, he won't find kings to jostle Him on his way; but does he wear his head?

Because the last we saw here had a tussle, And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, Had he not flung his head in all our faces.