[Footnote 100: This passage of the Journal has already appeared in my Life of Sheridan.]
[Footnote 101: These names are all left blank in the original.]
[Footnote 102: Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and fifty lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and imagination, it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge[103], which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Person. There are, however, some of the stanzas of "The Devil's Drive" well worth preserving.
"The Devil return'd to hell by two, And he stay'd at home till five; When he dined on some homicides done in _ragoût_, And a rebel or so in an _Irish_ stew, And sausages made of a self-slain Jew, And bethought himself what next to do, 'And,' quoth he, 'I'll take a drive. I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night; In darkness my children take most delight, And I'll see how my favourites thrive.'
"'And what shall I ride in?' quoth Lucifer, then-- 'If I follow'd my taste, indeed, I should mount in a wagon of wounded men, And smile to see them bleed. But these will be furnish'd again and again, And at present my purpose is speed; To see my manor as much as I may, And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.
"'I have a state coach at Carleton House, A chariot in Seymour Place; But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends By driving my favourite pace: And they handle their reins with such a grace, I have something for both at the end of the race.
"'So now for the earth to take my chance.' Then up to the earth sprung he; And making a jump from Moscow to France, He stepped across the sea, And rested his hoof on a turnpike road, No very great way from a bishop's abode.
"But first as he flew, I forgot to say, That he hover'd a moment upon his way To look upon Leipsic plain; And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair, That he perch'd on a mountain of slain; And he gazed with delight from its growing height; Not often on earth had he seen such a sight, Nor his work done half as well: For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, That it blush'd like the waves of hell! Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he-- 'Methinks they have here little need of me!' * *
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