which ex luce praebens fumum, Made him beyond the bottom see Of truth's clear well—when I and you, Ma'am, 540 Go, as we shall do, subter humum, We may know more than he. 18. Now Peter ran to seed in soul Into a walking paradox; For he was neither part nor whole, 545 Nor good, nor bad—nor knave nor fool; —Among the woods and rocks 19. Furious he rode, where late he ran, Lashing and spurring his tame hobby; Turned to a formal puritan, 550 A solemn and unsexual man,— He half believed "White Obi". 20. This steed in vision he would ride, High trotting over nine-inch bridges, With Flibbertigibbet, imp of pride, 555 Mocking and mowing by his side— A mad-brained goblin for a guide— Over corn-fields, gates, and hedges. 21. After these ghastly rides, he came Home to his heart, and found from thence 560 Much stolen of its accustomed flame; His thoughts grew weak, drowsy, and lame Of their intelligence. 22. To Peter's view, all seemed one hue; He was no Whig, he was no Tory; 565 No Deist and no Christian he;— He got so subtle, that to be Nothing, was all his glory. 23. One single point in his belief From his organization sprung, 570 The heart-enrooted faith, the chief Ear in his doctrines' blighted sheaf, That 'Happiness is wrong'; 24. So thought Calvin and Dominic; So think their fierce successors, who 575 Even now would neither stint nor stick Our flesh from off our bones to pick, If they might 'do their do.' 25. His morals thus were undermined:— The old Peter—the hard, old Potter— 580 Was born anew within his mind; He grew dull, harsh, sly, unrefined, As when he tramped beside the Otter. 26. In the death hues of agony Lambently flashing from a fish, 585 Now Peter felt amused to see Shades like a rainbow's rise and flee, Mixed with a certain hungry wish. 27. So in his Country's dying face He looked—and, lovely as she lay, 590 Seeking in vain his last embrace, Wailing her own abandoned case, With hardened sneer he turned away: 28. And coolly to his own soul said;— 'Do you not think that we might make 595 A poem on her when she's dead:— Or, no—a thought is in my head— Her shroud for a new sheet I'll take: 29. 'My wife wants one.—Let who will bury This mangled corpse! And I and you, 600 My dearest Soul, will then make merry, As the Prince Regent did with Sherry,—' 'Ay—and at last desert me too.' 30.
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