Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/361

Rh All hail, M.P.! from whose infernal brain

Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;

At whose command "grim women" throng in crowds,

And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,

With "small grey men,"—"wild yagers," and what not,

To crown with honour thee and :

Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,

St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease:

Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell,

And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir

Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire,

With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed

Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?

'Tis ! young Catullus of his day,

As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!

Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,

Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.

Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns;

From grosser incense with disgust she turns