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;


'A power which comes and goes like dream,
  And which none can ever trace—
Heaven's light on earth—Truth's brightest beam.'
And when he ceased there lay the gleam
  Of those words upon his face.


Now Peter, when he heard such talk,
  Would, heedless of a broken pate,
Stand like a man asleep, or balk
Some wishing guest of knife or fork,
  Or drop and break his master's plate.


At night he oft would start and wake
  Like a lover, and began
In a wild measure songs to make
On moor, and glen, and rocky lake,
  And on the heart of man—


And on the universal sky—
  And the wide earth's bosom green,—
And the sweet, strange mystery
Of what beyond these things may lie,
  And yet remain unseen.


For in his thought he visited
  The spots in which, ere dead and damned,
He his wayward life had led;
Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed
  Which thus his fancy crammed.


And these obscure remembrances
  Stirred such harmony in Peter,
That, whensoever he should please,
He could speak of rocks and trees
  In poetic metre.


For though it was without a sense
  Of memory, yet he remembered well
Many a ditch and quick-set fence;
Of lakes he had intelligence,
  He knew something of heath and fell.


He had also dim recollections
  Of pedlars tramping on their rounds;
Milk-pans and pails; and odd collections
Of saws, and proverbs; and reflections
  Old parsons make in burying-grounds.


But Peter's verse was clear, and came
  Announcing from the frozen hearth
Of a cold age, that none might tame
The soul of that diviner flame
  It augured to the Earth:


Like gentle rains, on the dry plains,
  Making that green which late was gray,
Or like the sudden moon, that stains
Some gloomy chamber's window-panes
  With a broad light like day.


For language was in Peter's hand
  Like clay while he was yet a potter;
And he made songs for all the land,
Sweet both to feel and understand,
  As pipkins late to mountain Cotter.


And Mr. —-, the bookseller,
  Gave twenty pounds for some;—then scorning
A footman's yellow coat to wear,
Peter, too proud of heart, I fear,
  Instantly gave the Devil warning.


Whereat the Devil took offence,
  And swore in his soul a great oath then,
'That for his damned impertinence
He'd bring him to a proper sense
  Of what was due to gentlemen!'