Analysis of The Vision of Judgment
George Gordon Lord Byron 1788 (London) – 1824 (Missolonghi, Aetolia)
Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate:
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,
So little trouble had been given of late;
Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era 'eight-eight'
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull,
And 'a pull altogether,' as they say
At sea — which drew most souls another way.
The angels all were singing out of tune,
And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon
Broke out of bounds o'er th' ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.
The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky
Save the recording angel's black bureau;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.
His business so augmented of late years,
That he was forced, against his will no doubt,
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,)
For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,
To aid him ere he should be quite worn out
By the increased demand for his remarks:
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.
This was a handsome board — at least for heaven;
And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conqueror's cars were daily driven,
So many kingdoms fitted up anew;
Each day too slew its thousands six or seven,
Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,
They threw their pens down in divine disgust —
The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.
This by the way: 'tis not mine to record
What angels shrink Wrom: ZAAFXISHJEXXIMQZUIVO
On this occasion his own work abhorr'd,
So surfeited with the infernal revel:
Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword,
It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil.
(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion —
'Tis, that he has both generals in reveration.)
Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace,
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont,
And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease,
With nothing but new names subscribed upon't;
'Twill one day finish: meantime they increase,
'With seven heads and ten horns,' and all in front,
Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born
Less formidable in the head than horn.
In the first year of freedom's second dawn
Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one
Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn
Left him nor mental nor external sun:
A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,
A worse king never left a realm undone!
He died — but left his subjects still behind,
One half as mad — and t'other no less blind.
He died! his death made no great stir on earth:
His burial made some pomp; there was profusion
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth
Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion.
For these things may be bought at their true worth;
Of elegy there was the due infusion —
Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,
Form'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all
The fools who flack's to swell or see the show,
Who cared about the corpse? The funeral
Made the attraction, and the black the woe.
There throbbed not there a thought which pierced the pall;
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,
It seamed the mockery of hell to fold
The rottenness of eighty years in gold.
So mix his body with the dust! It might
Return to what it must far sooner, were
The natural compound left alone to fight
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air;
But the unnatural balsams merely blight
What nature made him at his birth, as bare
As the mere million's base unmarried clay —
Yet all his spices but prolong decay.
He's dead — and upper earth with him has done;
He's buried; save the undertaker's bill,
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone
For him, unless he left a German will:
But where's the proctor who will ask his son?
In whom his qualities are reigning still,
Except that household v
Scheme | ABACACDD EFEFEFGG HIHIHIDX JKLKJKXX MFMFMFNN OHOBOBME PXPQPXRR SMSMSMTT UMUMUMLL XIBIXIVV WXWXWXDD MYSYMYQ |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 1101100101 1101000111 11010111011 1101110111 110101011 010111010101 001010111 1111110101 0101010111 0111010111 101110101 110101111 1111010111 1111101101001 1011011101 1110110101 0100110111 1011011101 01001011001 100101110 110101110 1101001101 1111111101 011011101 1101010111 1111011111 1111010100 1110110101 0101110101 1111111111 1001011101 1100110111 11010111110 01111010111 110100101010 1101010101 11111101110 110101010 1111100101 011111101 1101111101 110111 1101011101 111001010 11011101001 1111011110 1111101010 1111110001 1101111101 1101110111 010111011 11011101011 111101101 11010110101 11101111011 1100000111 0011110101 110111101 1101011101 1111010101 0101011111 0111010101 1111110101 11110110111 1111111111 110011111010 1101010111 11111111010 1111111111 11001101010 11000101010 10010111010 10110111 0111111101 1101010100 1001000101 1111011101 0101010111 1101001111 01110101 1111010111 0111111100 01001010111 11101101001 1001001101 1101111111 101110101 1111010101 1101011111 1101011 110010111 1101110101 1101011111 0111001101 01111 |
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 4,248 |
Words | 766 |
Sentences | 20 |
Stanzas | 12 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 8, 7 |
Lines Amount | 95 |
Letters per line (avg) | 34 |
Words per line (avg) | 8 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 267 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 63 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 24, 2023
- 3:57 min read
- 150 Views
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"The Vision of Judgment" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 27 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/15246/the-vision-of-judgment>.
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