XXXI.

As troubled skies stain waters clear, The storm in Peter's heart and mind Now made his verses dark and queer: They were the ghosts of what they were, Shaking dim grave-clothes in the wind.

For he now raved enormous folly, Of Baptisms, Sunday-schools, and Graves, 'Twould make George Colman melancholy To have heard him, like a male Molly, Chanting those stupid staves.

Yet the Reviews, who heaped abuse On Peter while he wrote for freedom, So soon as in his song they spy The folly which soothes tyranny, Praise him, for those who feed 'em.

'He was a man, too great to scan;-- A planet lost in truth's keen rays:-- His virtue, awful and prodigious;-- He was the most sublime, religious, Pure-minded Poet of these days.'

As soon as he read that, cried Peter, 'Eureka! I have found the way To make a better thing of metre Than e'er was made by living creature Up to this blessèd day.'