Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 4.djvu/567

Rh For all corrupted things are buoyed like corks, By their own rottenness, light as an elf, Or wisp that flits o'er a morass: he lurks, It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or "Vision," As Welborn says—"the Devil turned precisian."

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion Of this true dream, the telescope is gone Which kept my optics free from all delusion, And showed me what I in my turn have shown; All I saw farther, in the last confusion, Was, that King George slipped into Heaven for one; And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, I left him practising the hundredth psalm.