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CXL.

This special honor was conferr'd, because

He had behaved with courage and humanity;Which last men like, when they have time to pause From their ferocities produced by vanity. His little captive gain'd him some applause,

For saving her amid the wild insanity

Of carnage, and I think he was more glad in her Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.

CXLI.

The Moslem orphan went with her protector,
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless: all
Her friends, like the sad family of Hector,
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall:
Her very place of birth was but a spectre

Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's call To prayer was heard no more!—and Juan wept, And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.

CANTO IX.

I.

Оx, Wellington! (or "Villainton "-for fame
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways;
France could not even conquer your great name,
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase-
Beating or beaten she will laugh the same)-

You have obtain❜d great pensions and much praise; Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, Humanity would rise, and thunder, "Nay!"

II.

I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well
In Marinèt's affair-in fact 'twas shabby,
And, like some other things, won't do to tell
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey.
Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell,

Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby;
But though your years as man tend fast to zero,
In fact your grace is still but a young hero.

III.

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much, Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: You have repair'd legitimacy's crutch

A prop not quite so certain as before: The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; And Waterloo has made the world your debtor(I wish your bards would sing it rather better.)

IV.

You are "the best of cut-throats: "-do not start;
The phrase is Shakespeare's, and not misapplied;
War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
if you have acted once a generous part,

The world, not the world's masters, will decide,
And I shall be delighted to learn who,
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo?

V.

I am no flatterer-you've supp'd full of flattery;
They say you like it too-'tis no great wonder:
He whose whole life has been assault and battery,
At last may get a little tired of thunder;
And, swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he
May like being praised for every lucky blunder:
Call'd"Saviour of the Nations "-not yet saved,
And "Europe's Liberator "-still enslaved.

VI.

I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils,
And send the sentinel before your gate,2

A slice or two from your luxurious meals:
He fought, but has not fed so well of late,

Some hunger, too, they say the people feels: There is no doubt that you deserve your rationBut pray give back a little to the nation.

VII.

I don't mean to reflect-a man so great as
You, my Lord Duke! is far above reflection.
The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus
With modern history has but small connection;
Though as an Irishman you love potatoes,

You need not take them under your direction: And half a million for your Sabine farm

Is rather dear!-I'm sure I mean no harm.

VIII.

Great men have always scorn'd great recompenses,
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died,
Not leaving even his funeral expenses:

George Washington had thanks and nought beside, Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) To free his country: Pitt, too, had his pride, And, as a high-soul'd minister of state, is Renown'd for ruining Great Britain, gratis.

IX.

Never had mortal man such opportunity,
Except Napoleon, or abused it more:
You might have freed fall'n Europe from the unity
Of tyrants, and been bless'd from shore to shore;
And now-what is your fame? Shall the Muse tune
it ye?

Now that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er?
Go, hear it in your famish'd country's cries!
Behold the world! and curse your victories!

X.

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats,

To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe Truths that you will not read in the gazettes,

But which, 'tis time to teach the hireling tribe Who fatten on their country's gore and debts, Must be recited, and-without a bribe. You did great things; but, not being great in mind, Have left undone the greatest-and mankind. XI.

Death laughs-Go ponder o'er the skeleton

With which men image out the unknown thing That hides the past world, like to a set sun Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter spring: Death laughs at all you weep for;-look upon

This hourly dread of all whose threaten'd sting Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath! Mark! how its lipless mouth grins without breath!

XII. Mark! how it laughs and scorns at all you are! And yet was what you are: from ear to ear It laughs not-there is now no fleshy bar

So call'd; the antic long hath ceased to hear, But still he smiles; and whether near or far, He strips from man that mantle-(far more dear Than even the tailor's)-his incarnate skin, White, black, or copper-the dead bones will grin.

XIII.

And thus Death laughs,-it is sad merriment,
But still it is so; and with such example
Why should not Life be equally content,
With his superior, in a smile to trample
Upon the nothings which are daily spent

Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample
Than the eternal deluge, which devours
Suns as rays-worlds like atoms-years like ours?
XIV.

"To be, or not to be! that is the question," Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. I am neither Alexander nor Hephæstion,

Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; But would much rather have a sound digestion, Than Bonaparte's cancer:-could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame, Without a stomach-what were a good name?

XV.

"Oh, dura ilia messorum!"-"Oh,

Ye rigid guts of reapers!"-I translate For the great benefit of those who know What indigestion is-that inward fate Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow. A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate: Let this one toil for bread-that rack for rent,He who sleeps best may be the most content.

XVI.

"To be, or not to be!"-Ere I decide,

I should be glad to know that which is being. "Tis true we speculate both far and wide,

And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: For my part, I'll enlist on neither side,

Until I see both sides for once agreeing. For me, I sometimes think that life is death, Rather than life a mere affair of breath.

XVII.

"Que scais-je?" was the motto of Montaigne,
As also of the first academicians:
That all is dubious which man may attain,
Was one of their most favorite positions.
There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain
As any of mortality's conditions:

So little do we know what we're about in
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting.

XVIII.

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float,
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation;
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat?
Your wise men don't know much of navigation;
And swimming long in the abyss of thought

Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station [gathers Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers.

XIX.

"But heaven," as Cassio says, "is above all.-
No more of this then,-let us pray!" We have
Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall,
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave,
Besides fish, beasts, and birds. "The sparrow's fall
Is special providence," though how it gave
Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd.
XX.

Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony?

Oh, thou too mortal man! what is philanthropy?
Oh, world, which was and is! what is cosmogony?
Some people have accused me of misanthropy;
And yet I know no more than the mahogany
That forms this desk, of what they mean:-ly.
kanthropy

I comprehend; for, without transformation,
Men become wolves on any slight occasion.

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XXVI.

The consequence is, being of no party,

I shall offend all parties:-never mind!

My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty
Than if I sought to sail before the wind.

XXXIII.

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child
Whom he had saved from slaughter-what a trophy!
Oh! ye who build up monuments, defiled
With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy

He who has nought to gain can have small art: he Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild,

Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind

May Still expatiate freely, as will I,

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry.

XXVII.

That's an appropriate simile, that jackal;

I've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl
By night, as do that mercenary pack all,

Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl,
And scent the prey their masters would attack all.
However, the poor jackals are less foul,
(As being the brave lion's keen providers)
Than human insects, catering for spiders.
XXVIII.

Raise but an arm! 'twill brush their web away,
And without that, their poison and their claws
Are useless. Mind, good people! what I say-
(Or rather peoples)-go on without pause!
The web of these tarantulas each day

Increases, till you shall make common cause;
None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee,
As yet are strongly stinging to be free.

XXIX.

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter,
Was left upon his way with the despatch,
Where blood was talk'd of as we would of water;
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch
O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter

And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee
To sooth his woes withal, was slain, the sinner
Because he could no more digest his dinner :-

XXXIV.

Oh ye! or we! or she! or he! reflect,
That one life saved, especially if young
Or pretty, is a thing to recollect

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung
From the manure of human clay, though deck'd
With all the praises ever said or sung:
Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within
Your heart joins chorus, fame is but a din.

XXXV.

Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous!
Yet twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes!
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers illumine us!
Whether you're paid by government in bribes,
To prove the public debt is not consuming us-
Or, roughly treading on the "courtier's kibes"
With clownish heel, your popular circulation
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation.-

XXXVI.

Oh, ye great authors!" Apropos des bottes "-
I have forgotten what I meant to say,
As sometimes have been greater sages' lots:
'Twas something calculated to allay
All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots:
Certes it would nave been but thrown away

Fair Catherine's pastime-who look'd on the
Between these nations as a main of cocks, [match | And that's one comfort for my lost advice,
Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks.

XXX.

And there in a kibitka he roll'd on,

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs,
Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole bone,)
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings,
And orders, and on all that he had done-

And wishing that post-horses had the wings
Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises
Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is.

XXXI.

At every jolt-and there were many-still
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge,
As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill
Than he, in these sad highways left at large
To ruts and flints, and lovely nature's skill,
Who is no pavior, nor admits a barge
On her canals, where God takes sea and land,
Fishery and farm, both into his own hand.

XXXII.

At least he pays no rent, and has best right
To be the first of what we used to call
"Gentlemen farmers "-a race worn out quite,
Since lately there have been no rents at all,
And "gentlemen" are in a piteous plight,
And "farmers" can't raise Ceres from her fall:
She fell with Bonaparte :-what strange thoughts
Arise, when we see emperors fill with oats!

Although no doubt it was beyond all price.

XXXVII.

But let it go: it will one day be found

With other relics of "a former world,"
When this world shall be former, underground,
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and curl'd,
Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, or drown'd,
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd
First out of and then back again to chaos,
The superstratum which will overlay us.

XXXVIII.

So Cuvier says ;-and then shall come again
Unto the new creation, rising out
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain
Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt:
Like to the notions we now entertain

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles,
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles.

XXXIX.

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up
How the new worldings of the then new East
Will wonder where such animals could sup!
(For they themselves will be but of the least:
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup,
And every new creation hath decreased
In size, from overworking the material-
Men are but maggots of some huge earth's burial.)

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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 'tis)

(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He [jailer)-Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose 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 favorite frown'd:|
I quite forgot 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.

Said "Lady, I beseech you to suppose them." [them

LII.

And thus I supplicate your supposition,

And mildest, matron-like interpretation,

Of the imerial favorite's condition.

"Twas 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 hirsute seasons which destroy,

With beard and whiskers, and the like, the fond Parisian aspect, which upset all Troy

And founded Doctors' Commons;-I have confin'd The history of divorces, which, though checker'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,
Admiring 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
stripp'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.

LVIII.

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor

Forgetting quite the woman, (which composed
At least three parts of this great whole,) she tore
The letter open with an air which posed
The court, that watch'd each look her visage wore,
Until a royal smile at length disclosed
Fair weather for the day. Though rather spacious,
Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.

LIX.

Great joy was hers, or rather joys; the first
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain.
Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst,

As an East Indian sunrise on the main.
These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst-
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain:
In vain!-As fall the dews on quenchless sands,
Blood only serves to wash ambition's hands!

LX.

Her next amusement was more fanciful;
She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who threw
Into a Russian couplet, rather dull,

The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew.
Her third was feminine enough to annul

The shudder which runs naturally through

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Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up-
And so they fell in love;-she with his face,
His grace, his God-knows-what: for Cupid's cup
With the first draught intoxicates apace,

A quintessential laudanum or "black drop,"
Which makes one drunk at once, without the base

Our veins, when things called sovereigns think it best Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye

To kill, and generals turn it into jest.

In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) drv

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