GRISBOURDON THE CORDELIER, WHO SOUGHT TO VIOLATE JOAN, IS JUSTLY CONSIGNED TO THE INFERNAL REGIONS, WHERE HE DETAILS HIS ADVENTURE TO THE DEMONS.
OH, LET us keep the Christian path in view!
Believe me, friends, we should that track pursue;
Each must at length his bounden duty own;
As for myself, in youth my mind was prone
To sin; and oft I flew the dance to grace,
Ne'er casting thought upon a sainted place;
Supping and sleeping with the nymphs of love,
And mocking those who serve the power above.
What happens then? Death, flat-nosed Death
His murderous scythe, and to the view appears;
Thus visiting, at length, our free-born wits,
Whom fever changeful, shakes with varied fits:
Bailiff of Atropos,1 of Styx the child,
Thou rulest their scanty brains, of sense beguiled,
While near the bed's head nurse and lawyer stay,
Crying, 'tis time, poor friend, thou must away;
Where would'st thou after death thy bones should
As tardy issues the repentant breath,
Still lingering to proclaim its wish in death;
Some to his aid Saint Roch, Saint Martin, call;
Another prays Mitouche to end his thrall;
Some psalmody, some drawl the Latin strain,
Sprinkle with holy water, but in vain;
At bed's foot crouching, the infernal sprite,
With open claws, awaits the soul's dread flight
Which, once escaped, its airy course entraps,
And in the passage, trembling spirit snaps;
Then bears it to the depths profound of hell,
Fit region formed for souls perverse to dwell.
'Tis time, dear reader, I should now record
How Satan, of infernal realms the lord,
To all his vassals banquet gave in state;
'Twas at his mansion house hellish fete.
A vast recruiting had of late been made,
And demons quaffed to brethren of the trade;
A pope and cardinal well stored in paunch,
A northern king, and fourteen prebends staunch,
Intendants three, and lazy monks a score,
Trios of counsellors to swell the store,
All fresh arrived from playing mundane games,
Escheated thus to hell's eternal flames.
The horned chief his black imps' shouting hears,
And yields to mirth, surrounded by his peers;
They quaff infernal nectar half-seas o'er,
And songs in praise of drinking loudly roar;
When, at the gate a sudden cry is heard:
"Good day arrived what here!" was straight
"Brothers, 'tis he, great envoy from our realm;
'Tis Grisbourdon, sworn pilot of our helm-
Come in, right welcome to our roasting fire."
Then arm in arm they seize the monkish sire,
Arch-Satan's doctor, Grisbourdon renowned,
Son and apostate of the devil crowned;
In twinkling of an eye, embraced by all,
He gains the festive board of Moloch's hall."
Satan arising, cried: "O hell-born child!
Pride of all debauchees, by sin defiled,
Thus soon I did not think thy face to see;
On earth thy presence useful was to me:
Than thou none better could my realms advance,
Through thee my luminary reigned in France;
For, while in Gallia, thou gavest sin full scope:
To view thee here extinguishes my hope;
But fate's puissant will we can't command,
So drink, and set thyself at my right hand."
The monk, o'ercome by saintly tremor dire,
Kissed the sharp talons of his dreaded sire;
Then bent his saddened gaze on depths profound,
Where naught but flames illumed the vasty round:
Dire realms of fire, wherein forever rest
Death, crimes, and those by torments fell oppressed;
Eternal throne, where sits the unclean sprite
Dooming the world to sad and endless night,
Entombing hoar antiquity so sage,
Love, talent, wit, grace, beauty, every age,
That crowd unnumbered and immortal crew,
True heaven-born race, O Satan! made for you.
Reader, thou knowest that in this fiery place
The best of kings share pangs with tyrant race:
Here Antoninus, Marc Aurelius," roast;
And matchless Trajan 10 of all kings the boast;
The gentle Titus," by mankind revered;
Two Catos,12 who as plagues of vice appeared; 18
That Scipio," who his courage could subdue,
That conquered Love and with it Carthage too;
Divinest Homer; Plato, sage, thy toil,
With Ciceronian eloquence, must broil;
Pure Socrates, true son of Wisdom's reign,
The great God's martyr in his Greece profane;
Aristides, thy justice has no plea;
Thy virtues, Solon,18 prove no shield for thee;
All, all alike to burning climes are sent,
Because they never to Confession went."
But that which Grisbourdon astounded most,
Was to behold, amid this impish host,
Some certain saints and kings whose names we
Emblazoning history, whom legends grace.
First of this number, Clovis met his eyes; 10
Reader, methinks I view thy fell surprise.
That king, by subjects deemed devoid of vice,
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