Were I on earth, replied the Shade,
I never had the truth betray’d;
For there (and I suspect like you)
I ne’er had time myself to view. 
Yet, knowing that ’bove all creation
I held myself in estimation,
I deem’d that what I lov’d the best
Of every virtue was possess’d. 
But here in colours black and true,
Men see themselves, who never knew
Their motives in the worldly strife,
Or real characters through life. 
And here, alas!  I scarce had been
A little day, when every sin
That slumber’d in my living breast,
By Minos rous’d from torpid rest,
Like thousand adders, rushing out,
Entwin’d my shuddering limbs about.—­
Oh, strangers, hear!—­the truth I tell—­
That fearful sight I saw was Hell. 
And, oh I with what unmeasur’d wo
Did bitterness upon me flow,
When thund’ring through the hissing air,
I heard the sentence of Despair—­
’Now never hope from Hell to flee;
Yourself is all the Hell you see!’—­

He ceas’d.  But still with stubborn pride
The Rival Shades each other eyed;
When, bursting with terrifick sound,
The voice of Minos shook the ground,
The startled ghosts on either side,
Like clouds before the wind, divide;
And leaving far a passage free,
Each, conning his defensive plea,
With many a crafty lure for grace. 
The Painters onward hold their pace. 
Anon before the Judgement Seat,
With sneer confronting sneer they meet: 
And now in deep and awful strain,
Piercing like fiery darts the brain,
Thus Minos spake.  Though I am he,
From whom no secret thought may flee;
Who sees it ere the birth be known
To him, that claims it for his own;
Yet would I still with patience hear
What each may for himself declare,
That all in your defence may see
The justice pure of my decree.—­
But, hold!—­It ill beseems my place
To hear debate in such a case: 
Be therefore thou, Da Vinci’s shade,
Who when on earth to men display’d
The scattered powers of human kind
In thy capacious soul combin’d;
Be thou the umpire of the strife,
And judge as thou wert still in life.

Thus bid, with grave becoming air,
Th’ appointed judge assum’d the chair. 
And now with modest-seeming air,
The rivals straight for speech prepare: 
And thus, with hand upon his breast,
The Senior Ghost the Judge address’d: 
The world, (if ought the world I durst
In this believe) did call me first
Of those, who by the magick play
Of harmonizing colours, sway
The gazer’s sense with such surprise,
As make him disbelieve his eyes. 
’Tis true that some of vision dim,
Or squeamish taste, or pedant whim,
My works assail’d with narrow spite;
And, passing o’er my colour bright,
Reproach’d me for my want of grace,
And silks and velvets out of place;
And vulgar form, and lame design,
And want of character; in fine,