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, 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 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 Such tales being for the tea hours of some tabby; 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 world, not the world's masters, will decide, V. I am no flatterer-you've supp'd full of flattery; VI. I've done. Now go and dine from off the plate A slice or two from your luxurious meals: 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 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, 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, Now that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er? 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, Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample "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, So little do we know what we're about in XVIII. It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 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.- Oh, ye immortal gods! what is theogony? Oh, thou too mortal man! what is philanthropy? I comprehend; for, without transformation, XXVI. The consequence is, being of no party, I shall offend all parties:-never mind! My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty XXXIII. But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 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 Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, Raise but an arm! 'twill brush their web away, Increases, till you shall make common cause; XXIX. Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee XXXIV. Oh ye! or we! or she! or he! reflect, Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung XXXV. Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous! XXXVI. Oh, ye great authors!" Apropos des bottes "- Fair Catherine's pastime-who look'd on the XXX. And there in a kibitka he roll'd on, (A cursed sort of carriage without springs, And wishing that post-horses had the wings XXXI. At every jolt-and there were many-still XXXII. At least he pays no rent, and has best right 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," XXXVIII. So Cuvier says ;-and then shall come again Of Titans, giants, fellows of about XXXIX. Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up 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 Just then, as they are rather numerous found, 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, 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. Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such Oh, thou "teterrima causa" of all "belli!"- Know not, since knowledge saw her branches Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises LVI. Some call thee "the worst cause of war," but I 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 LIX. Great joy was hers, or rather joys; the first As an East Indian sunrise on the main. LX. Her next amusement was more fanciful; The whole gazette of thousands whom he slew. The shudder which runs naturally through Her majesty look'd down, the youth look'd up- A quintessential laudanum or "black drop," 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 |