XXII.

Though to be sure this place was Hell; He was the Devil--and all they-- What though the claret circled well, And wit, like ocean, rose and fell?-- Were damned eternally.

PART THE FIFTH.

_Grace._

Among the guests who often stayed Till the Devil's petits-soupers A man there came, fair as a maid, And Peter noted what he said, Standing behind his master's chair.

He was a mighty poet--and A subtle-souled psychologist; All things he seemed to understand, Of old or new--of sea or land-- But his own mind--which was a mist.

This was a man who might have turned Hell into Heaven--and so in gladness A Heaven unto himself have earned; But he in shadows undiscerned Trusted,--and damned himself to madness.

He spoke of poetry, and how 'Divine it was--a light--a love-- A spirit which like wind doth blow As it listeth, to and fro; A dew rained down from God above;