XX.

This steed in vision he would ride, High trotting over nine-inch bridges, With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride, Mocking and mowing by his side-- A mad-brained goblin for a guide-- Over corn-fields, gates, and hedges.

After these ghastly rides, he came Home to his heart, and found from thence Much stolen of its accustomed flame; His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and lame Of their intelligence.

To Peter's view, all seemed one hue; He was no Whig, he was no Tory; No Deist and no Christian he;-- He got so subtle, that to be Nothing, was all his glory.

One single point in his belief From his organization sprung, The heart-enrooted faith, the chief Ear in his doctrines' blighted sheaf, That 'Happiness is wrong':

So thought Calvin and Dominic; So think their fierce successors, who Even now would neither stint nor stick Our flesh from off our bones to pick, If they might 'do their do.'