Some millions must be wrong, that ’s pretty dear; Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. God help us! Since we have need on our career To keep our holy beacons always bright, ’Tis time that some new prophet should appear, Or old indulge man with a second sight. Opinions wear out in some thousand years, Without a small refreshment from the spheres. But here again, why will I thus entangle Myself with metaphysics? None can hate So much as I do any kind of wrangle; And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, I always knock my head against some angle About the present, past, or future state. Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. But though I am a temperate theologian, And also meek as a metaphysician, Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan, As Eldon on a lunatic commission— In politics my duty is to show John Bull something of the lower world’s condition. It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla, To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. But politics, and policy, and piety, Are topics which I sometimes introduce, Not only for the sake of their variety, But as subservient to a moral use; Because my business is to dress society, And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. And now, that we may furnish with some matter all Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. And now I will give up all argument; And positively henceforth no temptation Shall ‘fool me to the top up of my bent:’— Yes, I’ ll begin a thorough reformation. Indeed, I never knew what people meant By deeming that my Muse’s conversation Was dangerous;—I think she is as harmless As some who labour more and yet may charm less. Grim reader! did you ever see a ghost? No; but you have heard—I understand—be dumb! And don’t regret the time you may have lost, For you have got that pleasure still to come: And do not think I mean to sneer at most Of these things, or by ridicule benumb That source of the sublime and the mysterious:— For certain reasons my belief is serious. Serious? You laugh;—you may: that will I not; My smiles must be sincere or not at all. I say I do believe a haunted spot Exists—and where? That shall I not recall, Because I’d rather it should be forgot, ‘Shadows the soul of Richard’ may appal. In short, upon that subject I’ve some qualms very Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury. The night (I sing by night—sometimes an owl, And now and then a nightingale) is dim, And the loud shriek of sage Minerva’s fowl Rattles around me her discordant hymn: Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl— I wish to heaven they would not look so grim; The dying embers dwindle in the grate— I think too that I have sate up too late: