CXXIV. If here and there some transient trait of pity, Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grow? CXXV. Think how the joys of reading a gazette Are purchased by all agonies and crimes: Or, if these do not move you, don't forget Such doom may be your own in after times. Meantime the taxes, Castlereagh, and debt, Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. CXXVI. But still there is unto a patriot nation, Which loves so well its country and its king, A subject of sublimest exultation Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing! Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, Gaunt Famine never shall approach the throneThough Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone. CXXVII. But let me put an end unto my theme: There was an end of Ismail-hapless town! Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown: CXXVIII. In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise A virtue much in fashion now-a-days, And therefore worthy of commemoration: The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, Had made them chaste;-they ravish'd very little. CXXIX. Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less As when the French, that dissipated nation, Except cold weather and commiseration; Some odd mistakes too happen'd in the dark, haste Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark Of light to save the venerably chaste:But six old damsels, each of seventy years, Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers. CXXXI. But on the whole their continence was great; To bear these crosses) for each waning prude Some voices of the buxom middle-aged « Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!» Suwarrow now was conqueror-a match CXXXIV. Methinks these are the most tremendous words, Since « Mene, Menè, Tekel,» and « Upharsin,> Which hands or pns have ever traced of swords. Heaven help me! I'm but little of a parson: What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on The fate of nations;-but this Russ, so witty, Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city. CXXXV. He wrote this polar melody, and set it, Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, Be said, that we still truckle unto thrones;- That hour is not for us, but 't is for you; And as, in the great joy of your millennium, You hardly will believe such things were true As now occur, I thought that I would pen you em, But may their very memory perish too! Yet, if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em, More than you scorn the savages of yore, Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore. CXXXVII. And when you hear historians talk of thrones, As we now gaze upon the Mammoth's bones, And wonder what old world such things could see: Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, The pleasant riddles of futurityGuessing at what shall happily be hid As the real purpose of a pyramid. CXXXVIII. All very accurate, you must allow, With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. The hero of this grand poetic riddle, I by and by may tell you, if at all: Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, This special honour 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 amidst the wild insanity Of carnage, and I think he was more glad in her Safety, than his new order of St Vladimir. 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, 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 With modern history has but small connexion: 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, X. As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, But which, t is time to teach the hireling tribe Must be recited, and-without a bribe. You did great things; but, not being great in mind, 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! 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 And thus Death laughs-it is sad merriment, Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 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 Hephaestion, Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion; But would much rather have a sound digestion, Than Bonaparte's caucer:-could I dash on Through fifty victories to shame or fame, Without a stomach-what were a good name? XV. «Oh, dura ilia messorum!»-« Ob, Ye rigid guts of reapers!»-1 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. T is 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 sais-je ? » was the motto of Montaigne, So little do we know what we 're about in It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, thropy I comprehend; for, without transformation, But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, And though I could not now and then forbear Have always had a tendency to spare,— Tis time we should proceed with our good poem, However little both are understood Just now, but by and by the truth will show 'em And till she doth, I fain must be content Our hero and, I trust, kiud reader! yours)- Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors, Who still have shown themselves more brave then witty; I know its mighty empire now allures Much flattery-even Voltaire's, and that's a pity For me. I deem an absolute autocrat Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. XXIV. And I will war, at least in words (and-should My chance so happen-deeds) with all who war With thought;-and of thought's foes by far most rude, Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. I know not who may conquer: if I could Have such a prescience, it should be no bar To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation Of every despotism in every nation. XXV. It is not that I adulate the people: Without me there are demagogues enough, And set up in their stead some proper stuff. The consequence is, being of no party, I shall offend all parties:-never mind! He who has nought to gain can have small art: he May still expatiate freely, as will I, 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, Raise but an arm! 't will brush their web away, Increases, till you shall make common cause: XXIX. Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughter, Fair Catherine's pastime-who look'd on the match 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. XXXIV. Oh ye! or we! or she! or he! reflect, Or pretty, is a thing to recollect Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous! Το XXXVIII So Cuvier says; and then shall come again Of Titans, giants, fellows of about Think, if then George the Fourth should be dug up! In size, from overworking the material Men are but maggots of some huge earthi's burial.)— XL. How will-to these young people, just thrust out And plant, 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, XLI. But I am apt to grow too metaphysical: «The time is out of joint,»-and so am I; I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical, And deviate into matters rather dry. I ne'er decide what I shall say, and this 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: I 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 pleasant capital of painted snows; XLIII. Suppose him in a handsome uniform; Over a cock'd hat, in a crowded room, Suppose him, sword by side, and hat in hand, XLV. Ilis bandage slipp'd down into a cravat; His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; But still so like, that 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 Since first her majesty was singly crown'd: XLVII. Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momon off, Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough XLIX. Oh, gentle ladies! should you seek to know Which none divine, and every one obeys, I think I can explain myself without That sad inexplicable beast of preyThat sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, Did not his deeds unriddle them each dayThat 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 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.» |