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
Before the angels’ faces;
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.”