  THE Devil sits in his easy chair, Sipping his sulphur tea, And gazing out, with a pensive air, O’er the broad bitumen sea; Lulled into sentimental mood By the spirits’ far-off wail, That sweetly, o’er the burning flood, Floats on the brimstone gale! The Devil, who can be sad at times, In spite of all his mummery, And grave—though not so prosy quite As drawn by his friend Montgomery— The Devil to-day has a dreaming air, And his eye is raised, and his throat is bare; His musings are of many things, That, good or ill, befell, Since Adam’s sons macadamized The highways into hell: And the Devil—whose mirth is never loud— Laughs with a quiet mirth, As he thinks how well his serpent-tricks Have been mimicked upon earth; Of Eden, and of England soiled, And darkened by the foot Of those who preach with adder-tongues, And those who eat the fruit; Of creeping things, that drag their slime Into God’s chosen places, And knowledge leading into crime Of lands, from Nineveh to Spain, That have bowed beneath his sway, And men who did his work, from Cain To Viscount Castlereagh! Thomas Kibble Hervey. From “The Devil’s Progress.” |
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