Poor Mrs. Kinfoot closed her wings, leant out
From the Gold Bar of Heaven,
Shed tears, like icicles, to flout
Hell's suffering, to leaven
The Torment of the Upper Ten—
—Or was it because now and then
She heard the glad hilarious cries,
(A party down below again)
Till tears formed in her jungle-eyes
For torture she could not attain?
Or heard the strains that she adored
—Not martyrs seeking the Lost Chord
As here, nor Heber's hints of ire—
But Russian Music, for the latter
Was sent down to eternal fire
To promote fashionable chatter,
Which, as on earth, when music sounds
E'en torture cannot keep in bounds.
And Jacob's ladder, as she leans
Invites escape; with deep delight
She recollects what "climbing" means!
—But angels guard her day and night,
Or rather day and day, because
Eternal glory never thaws
To dusk—again strange music blares
Its strangled message through all space,
While, lit by multi-coloured flares,
Hell's blackness gains a certain grace.
* * * * *