XL.

How will-to these young people, just thrust out From some fresh paradise, and set to plough, And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about,

And plart, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow, Till all the arts at length are brought about,

Especially of war and taxing-how,

I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em,
Look like the monsters of a new museum!

XLI.

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:

"The time is out of joint,"-and so am I ; 1 quite forget this poem's merely quizzical, And deviate into matters rather dry.

I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call Much too poetical: men should know why They write, and for what end; but, note or text, I never know the word which will come next. XLII.

So on I ramble, now and then narrating,

Now pondering:-it is time we should narrate: [ left Don Juan with his horses baitingNow we'll get o'er the ground at a great rate. I shall not be particular in stating

His journey, we've so many tours of late: Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose That pleasent capital of painted snows;

XLIII.

Suppose him in a handsome uniform;

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, Waving, like sails new shivered in a storm,

Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room, And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn Gorme, Of yellow kerseymere we may presume, White stockings drawn, uncurdled as new milk, O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk.

XLIV.

Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand,
Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor--
That great enchanter, at whose rod's command
Beauty springs forth, and nature's self turns paler,
Seeing how art can make herself more grand,

(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a jailer Behold him placed upon a pillar! He Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery.

XLV.

His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat;

His wings subdued to epaulets; his quiver Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at

His side as a small-sword, but sharp as ever; His bow converted into a cock'd hat;

But still so like, Psyche were more clever Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) If she had not mistaken him for Cupid.

XLVI.

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and

The empress smiled; the reigning favourite frown'd

I quite forget which of them was in hand
Just then, as they are rather numerous found,
Who took by turns that difficult command,

Since first her majesty was singly crown'd:
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows,
All fit to make a Patagonian jealous.

XLVII.

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim,
Blushing and beardless; and yet ne'ertheless
There was a something in his turn of limb,
And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express,
That though he look'd one of the seraphim,

There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress.
Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy,
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi: *

XLVIII.

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, Or Scherbatoff, or any other of

Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough
Within her bosom (which was not too tough)
For a new flame; a thought to cast of gloom enough
Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough,
Of him who, in the language of his station,
Then held that "high official situation."

XLIX

Oh, gentle ladies! should you seek to know
The import of this diplomatic phrase,
Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess' show
His parts of speech; and in the strange displays
Of that odd string of words all in a row,

Which none divine, and every one obeys, Perhaps you may pick out some queer no-meaning Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning.

L.

I think I can explain myself without
That sad inexplicable beast of prey-
That sphinx, whose words would ever be a doub
Did not his deeds unriddle them each day-
That monstrous hieroglyphic-that long spout
Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh!
And here I must an anecdote relate,
But luckily of no great length or weight.

LI.

An English lady ask'd of an Italian,

What were the actual and official duties
Of the strange thing some women set a value on,
Which hovers oft about some married beauties,
Call'd"Cavalier Servente ?"-a Pygmalion

Whose statues warm (I fear, alas! too true 't is) Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose them Said "Lady, I beseech you to suppose them."

LII.

And thus I supplicate your supposition,
And mildest, matron-like interpretation

Of the imperial favourite's condition.

'T was a high place, the highest in the nation In fact, if not in rank; and the suspicion

Of any one's attaining to his station,

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoulders If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders.

LIII.

Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy,

And had retain'd his boyish look beyond The usual hirsu.e seasons, which destroy,

With beards and whiskers and the like, the fond Parisian aspect which upset old Troy

And founded Doctors' Commons:-I have conn'i The history of divorces, which, though chequer'd Calls Ilion's the first damages on record.

LIV.

And Catherine, who loved all things, (save her lord,
Who was gone to his place,) and pass'd for much,
Adiniring those (by dainty dames abhorr'd)
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch
Of sentiment; and he she most adored
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such
A lover as had cost her many a tear,
And yet but made a middling grenadier.

LV.

Oh, thou "teterrima causa" of all "belli!"-
Thou gate of life and death!-thou nondescript'
Whence is our exit and our entrance,-well I
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipp'd
In thy perennial fountain!-how man fell, I

Know not, since knowledge saw her branches strip'd
Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises
Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises.

LVI.

Some call thee "the worst cause of war," but I
Maintain thou art the best: for, after all,
From thee we come, to thee we go; and why,
To get at thee, not batter down a wall,
Or waste a world? Since no one can deny

Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small: With, or without thee, all things at a stand Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land! LVII.

Catherine, who was the grand epitome

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what You please, (it causes all the things which be, So you may take your choice of this or that)Catherine, I say, was very glad to see

The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat Victory; and, pausing as she saw him kneel With his despatch, forgot to break the seal.

And when you add to this, her womanhood

In its meridian, her blue eyes, or gray

And always used her favourites too well.

If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye went, Your "fortune" was in a fair way "to swell

Or better, as the best examples say: Napoleon's, Mary's (Queen of Scotland) shou.d Lend to that colour a transcendent ray;

Too wise to look through opticks black or blue)—