The victim blood, with godlike titles graced,
Bacchus, or Dionusus; son of Jove,
Deem'd falsely, for from Folly's idiot form
He sprung, what time Madness, with furious hand,
Seized on the laughing female. At one birth 140
She brought the brethren, menial here below,
Though sovereigns upon earth, where oft they hold
High revels. 'Mid the monastery's gloom,
Thy palace Gluttony, and oft to thee
The sacrifice is spread, when the
Episcopal proclaims approaching day
Of visitation; or churchwardens meet
To save the wretched many from the gripe
Of poverty; or 'mid thy ample halls
Of London, mighty Mayor! rich Aldermen,
Of coming feast hold converse.
For though allied in nature as in blood,
They hold divided sway, his brother lifts
His spungy sceptre. In the noble domes
Of princes, and state-wearied ministers,
Maddening he reigns; and when the affrighted mind Casts o'er a long career of guilt and blood
Its eye reluctant, then his aid is sought
To lull the worm of conscience to repose.
He too the halls of country squires frequents; 160
But chiefly loves the learned gloom that shades
Thy offspring Rhedycina, and thy walls
Granta! nightly libations there to him
Profuse are pour'd, till from the dizzy brain
Triangles, circles, parallelograms,
Moods, tenses, dialects, and demigods,
And logic and theology are swept
He revels; till the general feast comes round,
The sacrifice septennial, when the sons
Of England meet, with watchful care to chuse
Their delegates, wise, independent men,
Unbribing and unbribed, and chosen to guard
Their rights and charters from the encroaching grasp
Of greedy power; then all the joyful land
Join in his sacrifices, so inspired
To make the important choice.
The observing Maid Address'd her guide, "These, Theodore, thou say'st Are men, who pampering their foul appetites, Injured themselves alone. But where are they, 180 The worst of villains, viper-like, who coil
Around deluded woman, so to sting
The heart that loves them?"
"Them," the spirit replied,
"A long and dreadful punishment awaits.
For when the prey of want and infamy,
Lower and lower still the victim sinks,
Even to the depth of shame, not one lewd word,
One impious imprecation from her lips
Escapes, nay not a thought of evil lurks
In the polluted mind, that does not plead
Before the throne of Justice, thunder-tongued
Against the foul seducer."
Now they reach'd
Credulity
Stood at the gate, stretching her eager head
As though to listen; on her vacant face,
A look that promised premature assent;
Though her Regret behind, a meagre fiend,
Disciplined sorely.
And now arrived where, as in study tranced,
They saw the mistress of the dome. Her face
Spake that composed severity, that knows
No angry impulse, no weak tenderness,
Resolved and calm. Before her lay the Book,
Which hath the words of life; and as she read,
Sometimes a tear would trickle down her cheek,
Though heavenly joy beam'd in her eye the while.
Leaving her undisturb'd, to the first ward 207 Of this great lazar-house, the Angel led
The favour'd Maid of Orleans. Kneeling down
On the hard stone which their bare knees had worn,
In sackcloth robed, a numerous train appear'd:
Hard-featured some, and some demurely grave;
Yet such expression stealing from the eye,
As though, that only naked, all the rest
Were one close-fitting mask. A scoffing fiend,
For fiend he was, though wisely serving here,
Mock'd at his patients, and did often strew
Ashes upon them, and then bid them say
Their prayers aloud, and then he louder laugh'd:
For these were hypocrites, on earth revered
As holy ones, who did in public tell
Their beads, and make long prayers, and cross them
And call themselves most miserable sinners,
That so they might be deem'd most pious saints;
And go all filth, and never let a smile
Bend their stern muscles; gloomy, sullen men,
Barren of all affection, and all this
To please their God, forsooth! And therefore Scorn
Grinn'd at his patients, making them repeat
Their solemn farce, with keenest raillery
Tormenting; but if earnest in their prayer,
They pour'd the silent sorrows of the soul
To heaven, then did they not regard his mocks
Which then came painless, and Humility
Then rescued them, and led to Penitence,
That she might lead to heaven.
Where, in the next ward, a most wretched band
Groan'd underneath the bitter tyranny
Of a fierce dæmon. His coarse hair was red,
Pale grey his eyes, and blood-shot; and his face
Wrinkled by such a smile as Malice wears
In ecstacy. Well-pleased he went around,
Plunging his dagger in the hearts of some,
Or probing with a poison'd lance their breasts,
Or placing coals of fire within their wounds;
Or seizing some within his mighty grasp,
He fix'd them on a stake, and then drew back
And laugh'd to see them writhe.
"These," said the spirit,
"Are taught by Cruelty, to loathe the lives
They led themselves. Here are those wicked men
Who loved to exercise their tyrant power
On speechless brutes; bad husbands undergo
A long purgation here; the traffickers
In human flesh here too are disciplined,
Till by their suffering they have equall'd all
The miseries they inflicted, all the mass
Of wretchedness caused by the wars they waged,
The villages they burnt, the widows left
In want, the slave or led to suicide,
Or murder'd by the foul infected air
Of his close dungeon, or, more sad than all,
His virtue lost, his very soul enslaved,
And driven by woe to wickedness.
Whom thou beholdest in this dreary room,
With sullen eyes of hatred and of fear
Each on the other scowling, these have been
False friends. Tormented by their own dark thoughts
Here they dwell in the hollow of their hearts
There is a worm that feeds, and though thou seest
That skilful leech who willingly would heal
The ill they suffer, judging of all else
By their own evil conscience, they suspect
The aid he vainly proffers, lengthening thus
By vice its punishment."
The Maid exclaim'd, " that robed in flowing lawn,
And mitred, or in scarlet, and in caps
Like cardinals, I see in every ward,
Performing menial service at the beck
Of all who bid them?"
"These men are they who in the name of Christ Have heap'd up wealth, and arrogating power, 281 Have made kings kiss their feet, yet call'd themselves
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