Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/529



sat by the celestial gate: His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, So little trouble had been given of late; Not that the place by any means was full, But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight" The Devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, And "a pull altogether," as they say At sea—which drew most souls another way.

The Angels all were singing out of tune, And hoarse with having little else to do, Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, Or curb a runaway young star or two, Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, Splitting some planet with its playful tail, As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

The Guardian Seraphs had retired on high, Finding their charges past all care below; Terrestrial business filled nought in the sky Save the Recording Angel's black bureau;