But the Owner thereof was a glorified spirit above,
Whereof, as in duty bound, I had sung to him “Twang-a-dillo,
He that loves a pretty girl, is a hearty good fellow!”
And in Torment (but here the blest rage of the bard returns on me)
And in torment was She, who, on earth, had been also tormented
By Him who is never, nor can be accused, of aught vicious;
With her were the friends of my childhood—not leaving out Coleridge;
And they who were killed by the Manchester Yeomanry also;
And Truth, the whole Truth, nothing but the Truth, suffered the burning.
Then I turn’d my meek eyes, in their gladness, to Heaven, and my place there,